


As the World Falls Down

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Fae Castiel, Fae Dean Winchester, Fae Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, King Castiel, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 19:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: After his mom died, Dean swore off anything and everything relating to her heritage, going so far as to ignore the Fae blood in his own veins. The only magic he uses is to keep his inhuman qualities hidden, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s all he needs.However, when a Fae assassin suddenly appears and tries to kill Sam, everything is forced to change. With nowhere else to turn for help saving his brother’s life, Dean makes a desperate move and takes them both to the Fae Realm. Once they’re there, though, Dean quickly realizes that the Fae Realm isn’t nearly as idyllic as his mother wanted him to believe. Someone there wants Dean and Sam dead, everyone keeps secrets, and the king—The king may just be the most confusing part of it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarsMonkeyX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsMonkeyX/gifts).



> Hello! 
> 
> To all of my subs: I'm sorry that this is posting before so many other things, but at the same time I'm... not sorry? I'm trying out something new, which is, instead of coming up with an idea, partially writing it, and then abandoning it to work on something "more important" and always hating myself for it in the end, I'm just going to start posting things! To hold myself accountable! Doesn't that sound FUN? 
> 
> Now, because of that, I don't expect this fic to have any sort of a regular updating schedule. I love it to bits (hence, why it's being written and uploaded), but I'm a busy person with a lot on my plate, so I'll continuously cycle around to it either when I've had a burst of motivation, or when another project stalls. It /will/ be completed, it /will/ be updated at decent intervals--but I don't want to make crazy promises or set unrealistic expectations, so I figure that a large disclaimer right at the top can't hurt anything. :)
> 
> ANYWAY. 
> 
> Welcome to 'As the World Falls Down'! If the title didn't tip you off, this is officially my ode to Labyrinth, which was my first fandom and first experience with fanfic. It might not always be super recognizable, but it's there in spirit, I promise. <3 
> 
> Enjoy! And let me know what you think?
> 
>  
> 
> **Minor warning for some violence and blood at the end of this chapter; there's only the one instance of it, and despite what it might look like, there's no character death. Cross my heart.

One of Dean’s earliest memories is of a conversation with his mother. Actually, _all_ of Dean’s earliest memories are of his mother, but the one that he thinks of most often, the one that stands out the most clearly in his mind—that one, he remembers like it was yesterday.

They were sitting in the grass in the backyard of their house, basking in the dwindling light of the setting sun. The grass had recently been cut, but all around them, the grass which was nearest to their sprawling bodies was longer. Lusher. It was like it was reaching for them, desperate for a touch like they were better than the sunshine it typically fed from. Dean remembers tugging on it, fascinated, and watching with glee as his mother waved her hand over the fresh growth and encouraged a dandelion to sprout up beneath her palm. She had plucked it for him, then, and tucked it behind his ear with a bright smile, and a whisper of words Dean did not understand.

It was a good memory. Happy, pure.

He remembers after that, though, as the sunlight had faded more, the way his mother had also faded. Her smile turned sad as she watched the bleeding sunset on the horizon, and Dean, unsure of what to do in the face of such sadness from the person he loved most, had climbed into her lap and asked, “Mama? What’s wrong?”

He will never forget the way she had looked at him, then. Her eyes had been so green and golden in that moment, more beautiful than anything Dean’s young mind could ever remember having seen—and yet they were also lined with tears. The corner of her mouth had turned up, but despite the effort she was clearly making, one of those tears escaped and, though neither of them knew it at the time, irrevocably changed the way Dean would forever view her.

It was the only time he ever saw his mother cry, and that was not insignificant.

The lone tear had settled just beneath the silver marking under his mother’s left eye, and though he hesitated first, he didn’t regret wiping it away with his thumb. She had done the same with so many of _his_ tears, after all. He still doesn’t know what he had intended to get from the gesture, but it had made his mother smile a true smile, so that had made it worthwhile.

And then she had hugged him, at first so tight he could barely breathe, then more gently, after her heartbreak had begun to subside. She turned him around on her lap so that they could watch the sunset together, her chin resting on his small shoulder and her arms around his middle. It felt like safety, and Dean adored it.

Despite that, however, Dean could feel the tangible sadness still lingering beneath his mother’s skin, brushing across his own with every shift of the evening air. It had taken another, quieter prompt of, “Mama?” for her façade to break open a little wider.

“Dean,” she had said, in that special way that only a mother can say a name. She had stalled, however, and corrected, “ _Din ˈMaɪkəl_. I’ll show it to you one day. I do not know how or when, but you _will_ see it. The sunsets back home, Dean…” She paused again, this time with a wistful sigh. “The sunsets in the Fae Realm are the most beautiful sunsets of any world. I can’t wait to get to watch one with you, my beautiful son. I know you’ll love it as much as I always did.”

The concept of a more beautiful sunset isn’t one that Dean has ever been able to wrap his mind around, but it was still a nice thing to imagine. And of course, if seeing a sunset from his mother’s home would mean she would be happy instead of sad, then there was nothing else he could fathom wanting. So he had taken her word for it. He was just a kid. He believed everything his mom told him.

It wasn’t until a while after she died, only a few years after she told Dean about Fae Realm sunsets, that he began to realize how foolish that was.

In fact, it wasn’t until he relayed the story to his little brother Sam, who then told a group of kids on the playground at school, that Dean realized just what kind of position they were in. Two boys growing up in Kansas, believing in fairytales and secret worlds. It was stupid. Practically suicidal.

In Sam’s defense, talking about the Fae Realm didn’t _seem_ like a terrible thing. To anyone they would ever talk to, the Fae _were_ a thing of fairytale, and so long as no one knew that _they_ were Fae—so long as they kept their ears rounded, their eye markings concealed, their powers under wraps—there shouldn’t have been any harm.

That was the way Mary had taught Dean, and then Dean had taught Sam, when the time called for it.

But when Sam came home from school that day with a black eye and a chipped tooth, there was no going back, in Dean’s mind. Their life wasn’t a fairytale, and as such, they had no business believing in them. Their dad already acted as if his children didn’t have Fae blood, anyway, so why shouldn’t they do the same?

“No more, Sammy,” Dean had scolded, over and over again until the point finally began to stick. “No more talk about Mom, no more talk about what we are. Magic only to keep us hidden. We’re _human_. You got it?”

It took a while, but ultimately, Sam gave in and nodded. “Human,” he agreed morosely. “No more Mom.”

Dean’s resolve had threatened to crack, there, but it didn’t crumble. He had simply hugged Sam tight, tugged affectionately on the falsely-rounded tip of one of his ears, then done his brotherly duties and tucked him into bed.

His real test had come when he returned to his own bedroom, only to be greeted by the sight of a wilted and lifeless dandelion in the jar on his bedside table. He had held onto it since the day his mother grew it for him, kept it sustained with a small, drip-fed supply of his own magic, but now that he had lapsed for the first time—

He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes averted as he threw the dead dandelion in the trash. He wasn’t going to watch it, wasn’t going to remember, and he damn sure wasn’t going to cry. Not anymore.

Not over a fairytale.

  


~

  
  


For the first time in recent memory, Dean beats Sam home. It’s a strange experience; they live by such a set routine that there’s rarely any deviation anymore. In fact, Dean is so trained to follow their standard routines that this hiccup isn’t actually something he knows what to do with.

He doesn’t think he likes it.

He _knows_ Sam isn’t home, since their single, shared car isn’t in the driveway, but as he toes off his shoes and enters the house, he still calls out, “Sammy?”

There’s no response, of course, but he had to be sure.

He grumbles to himself under his breath as he tries to go about his after work routine, anyway. Typically, he would use this time to talk to Sam, ask him about the classes and lectures he attended for the day, or what homework he’s been working on. It’s their chance to reconnect after a long day, and unwind.

Since Sam is always home by the time Dean gets home from work, taking a couple minutes to chat makes sense. Sam’s latest class in his schedule ends at three, and Dean very rarely walks into the house later than six-thirty. Sam has plenty of buffer time to himself before Dean gets in, even after his commute home from the Kansas University campus is accounted for. Occasionally Sam will have some reason or another to need to stay later than usual, but even in those instances, he’s never home too much past the normal time.

And that certainly never happens without Dean being told in advance.

Ever since their dad died the previous year, they’ve started looking out for each other more than ever before. They always communicate with one another, always know where the other one is. It’s been a good thing for them, in plenty of ways, but at times like this, it also means that Dean’s protectiveness has no alternative outlets, so his paranoia is quick to jump into action.

Dean slips his phone out of his pocket as he heads for his bedroom and sends Sam a simple, _where r u?_ text, then stares for a moment to see if the small _delivered_ indicator changes to _read_.

It doesn’t.

Dean forces himself to take a deep breath. _It’s fine_ , he tries to tell himself. Sam is probably just stuck in the library, or with some study group or another. He hadn’t mentioned any upcoming projects to Dean, but just like whatever must be keeping him on campus today, it probably slipped his mind.

Yeah. That’s all.

Once he’s made it to his room, Dean strips out of his dirty work clothes and tosses them into the hamper, then crosses the hall to the bathroom so that he can start detoxing from his shift at the garage down the street. The stench of gasoline and engine grease have been steadily wearing on him for the last eight hours, and he’ll be damned before he lets it hang around him any longer than he has to. He may work with gross, manufactured metals and chemicals all day, but that doesn’t mean he wants to smell like it.

He might not like to think about it in any specific terms, but he knows that his mother’s influence is to blame for that. She was the natural type, and that is definitely something that is in Dean’s blood, too.

Taking a shower also serves to distract Dean from his missing brother, so he takes his time in scrubbing himself clean. Every minute he spends under the water makes him smell more and more like himself, which is a relief to every one of his senses, just as it also provides Sam the chance to make it home before Dean can have a conniption.

By the time he’s done, the gentle scents of Dean’s soaps have taken the edge off of his anxiety. His text to Sam is still unread, so he shoots off a follow-up, _Dude. Sam_. He’s still worried, because of course he is, but now that he smells like himself, it’s easier to feel like himself, too. It’s easier to keep a level head.

And a level head means that once Dean has dried off and pulled on a clean set of clothes, he marches into Sam’s room to do a little bit of snooping.

 _Deserved_ snooping, really. Sam is the one who decided to go AWOL. Dean just happens to know where he keeps his meticulously-updated personal calendar.

Or rather, he _thinks_ he knows where Sam’s calendar is. Dean knows he’s seen Sam writing in it at his desk, but at the moment, his desk is completely cleared off. Weirdly cleared off, actually. Dean doesn’t know when he last saw Sam’s desk so empty.

“What in the hell,” he mutters as starts to investigate. It only takes a bit of poking around to discover that all of Sam’s school books are on the floor beside the desk, looking sad and abandoned, while all of his notebooks and assorted loose papers have been shoved into one of the drawers built into the desk’s base.

Sam isn’t a disorganized kind of kid, but _this_ takes cleanliness to a bit of an extreme. An extreme which, frankly, Dean has trouble believing would happen without purpose.

It certainly ups the ante on this deserved snoop-session.

He starts rifling through the contents of the desk drawers, half looking for the missing calendar, half looking for an explanation of what his brother could possibly be up to. Most of what he sees is school stuff, but just as he’s about to give up, he spots it.

A piece of paper, tucked in among all the rest, showing the photocopied page of a book which reads in bold letters across the top, _Legends and Lore of the Fae: Establishing a Connection_.

As soon as he has the page in his hand, Dean knows that there’s more of it tucked away somewhere. He isn’t an idiot. If Sam went through the trouble of finding and saving some random book page, then his research is bound to go deeper, and if that’s the case…

If that’s the case, then maybe Sam’s extended time on campus today isn’t actually as much of a mystery as Dean previously thought. Sam would definitely do everything in his power to keep Dean in the dark about something like this, because he knows how Dean would react.

He knows how Dean _is going to_ react, that is. Because this? This isn’t going to fly.

Dean folds the paper in half and sticks it in the back pocket of his jeans, just in time for his phone to vibrate with a new message. Conveniently, it’s from Sam. A few texts come in in quick succession.

_Hey. Sorry. Got caught up, didn’t realize the time._

_Library’s a bit of a black hole. Was reading some really interesting stuff._

_Getting in the car now, be home in twenty._

Dean scoffs to himself. _Interesting stuff_. Right.

Technically, he knows he should be giving his brother the benefit of the doubt, but when it comes to a subject as touchy as this one, that’s easier said than done. They have rules, and those rules have been followed without issue for years. For Sam to break them now, like this?

Dean goes down to the kitchen to wait for Sam to get home, stewing all the while. Their nightly routine may have been shattered to bits, but despite everything else, they’re still at the end of a long day, and that means they need to eat. He busies himself with assembling sandwiches while his mind stays stuck on the subject of Sam’s secret research, which turns out to be a good outlet for his ever-present need to be _doing something_.

Just as he finishes putting together his quick dinner, Dean hears the familiar rumble of his and Sam’s beat-down old Subaru pull into the driveway. The sound sends an irrational burst of irritation rippling under Dean’s skin, purely for the fact that it’s now so late. He doesn’t want to blow up at Sam the minute the kid is through the door, though, so Dean props a hip against the kitchen counter and starts digging into his sandwich to keep himself occupied.

Sam comes in only a few moments later, a sheepish grin on his face. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I don’t get very good reception in the library, so it makes it hard to stay aware of the outside world.”

Dean just grunts in answer, and nods toward the sandwich that’s waiting for Sam on the kitchen’s island. Sam, thankfully, takes the hint. He drops his bag onto one of the island’s stools and sits himself in the other, then tears into the sandwich like he’s starving.

Considering how he typically gets during long study sessions, Dean’s sure that that’s exactly the case. Even if this, today, probably wasn’t the typical brand of studying. Which—

Dean is gracious enough to let Sam get through his dinner before jumping him. As soon as both of their sandwiches are gone, though, and Dean has relocated their plates to the sink, he pulls the photocopied page out of his back pocket and tosses it onto the island between them.

“So. Care to explain why you have this?”

“I… Um.” Sam stares down at the page like a deer caught in headlights, and he swallows hard before he starts attempting excuses. “I don’t know where you found that, it’s not…”

All Dean has to do is raise an eyebrow and the lie stops there. Sam gulps.

“I was holding it for a friend?”

“Sam. Don’t bullshit me.”

Sam winces and pulls in on himself. For a second, he looks like a kid again, eight years old instead of twenty, and it’s almost enough to make Dean want to let it go. Anything, to stop his brother from looking like _that_.

Only _almost_ , though. This is too important to drop, as they both know.

Dean continues to stare at Sam until eventually, finally, he cracks.

“I’ve been researching the Fae Realm.”

“Obviously. Why?”

Sam hesitates again. He shifts on his stool, his nervousness coloring every movement. Instead of giving a direct answer, though, he says, “Mom kept a journal.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

Sam glances up, the fringe of his shaggy hair only barely clear of his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, then repeats, “Mom kept a journal. Dad had it, and I found it after he died. It was in with the stuff he kept under his bed.”

Dean may not have seen this journal, but he knows what stash Sam is talking about. John hadn’t been a sentimental man, but when there were things he couldn’t let go of—his parents’ wedding rings, his leftover military paraphernalia, a few odd keepsakes from Dean and Sam’s baby days, et cetera—it went in a box kept under his bed. After his death, Dean hadn’t had the stomach to go through and sort it all out, so he’d passed the task off to Sam.

A mistake on his part, apparently.

Dean folds his arms across his chest and sighs. “Right. Okay. What kind of journal are we talking, then? Are you reading Mom’s _diary_?”

“ _No_ , Dean, it’s not—” Sam makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and slams his palms onto the counter, planting himself like that will help him make his point. “It’s not that kind of journal, alright? She wrote it for _us_. She made the first entries before I was born, so those are all addressed to _Din_ , but then it turned into _Din_ and _ˈSæmjul_. Most of it is normal stuff, just talking about us and her and life and our magic, but Dean, some of it…”

Sam’s eyes look dewey, and he visibly struggles under the weight of his emotions. He swallows hard before he finishes, “Dean, she wanted to take us home with her. She wanted us to get there someday, even if it _wasn’t_ with her. It was her biggest dream in life. She even wrote about how to get there!”

Dean scowls, a quick, lightning-hot burst of rage sparking through his core. “If she wanted us to go there so bad, then she could have taken us.”

It isn’t fair. Dean knows it isn’t. But it _hurts_ , and he hurts, and just knowing what Sam is trying to do, knowing that he’s being betrayed—

Dean’s scowl turns to a snarl, his upper lip curling. He feels the buzz of lightning beneath his skin, bunching in the joints of his fingers; his inherent magic has been under tight wraps for over a decade, now, yet here he is, almost losing control entirely.

“She must not have left very good instructions on opening a door, either, or you wouldn’t be standing here telling me about it.”

For a long moment, Sam says nothing. He stares at Dean, something unreadable in his eyes, and then his gaze sharpens into a glare and drops to the countertop. “Dad tore out the second half of the page. He didn’t want to throw Mom out, but he didn’t want us going _there_ , either. God forbid we do something that might give us some kind of happiness, right?”

 _That_ takes some of the wind out of Dean’s sails. Their dad was a very particular kind of man, and while he didn’t outright scorn his children’s less-than-human nature, he didn’t support it, either, after his wife’s death. When Dean and Sam both stopped talking about anything and everything Fae, John never even questioned it.

So if he actually destroyed their one chance of seeing Mary’s home, it’s really just par for the course.

Dean’s anger is still simmering within him, but it’s less explosive now. He tries to keep it that way as he says, “That’s why you’ve been spending extra time at the library, then. You’re trying to figure out how to get to the Fae Realm.”

Sam dips his chin in a jerky nod. He still doesn’t look directly at Dean, a clear indicator of his guilt. “I know I can figure it out. I want to go there. I can get there, Dean, I can get _us_ there.”

Dean shakes his head. “That’s a bad idea, Sam. We weren’t meant to go there.”

“But Dean—”

“ _Sam_. If the Fae Realm is so great, haven’t you ever wondered why Mom wasn’t there to begin with?”

Sam makes a face like he wants to object to everything Dean is saying on principle alone, but then he gives Dean a _look_ , and Dean knows he has him.

Despite what it probably looks like from Sam’s perspective, Dean _has_ thought about their mom. Quite a lot, in fact.

He makes a pointed effort to be more gentle as possible as he breaks his theory. “Sam, Mom _couldn’t_ be there. I think she was in some kind of trouble. Why else would she not be home, if she loved it there so much? Why would she have married Dad? Why have kids with a human?”

Sam’s hands, still against the counter, curl into fists. “She _loved_ Dad.”

“She did,” Dean concedes. “And I’m not saying she didn’t. But Sammy, you have to see what I mean. If all she wanted was to be in the Fae Realm, why’d she leave? Why be here to meet Dad to begin with? She was already here for a while before she met him. Probably since her parents died. And, notice that _that_ isn’t something we know anything about? There’s a lot that doesn’t add up, man, so no matter what mom might’ve written in her journal, trusting it blindly might as well be suicidal.”

Sam’s shoulders slump as he surrenders. “Yeah. Right. Fine.” He turns to start rifling through his bag, previously abandoned on the chair in front of the island. When he finds what he’s looking for, he throws it onto the counter between himself and Dean. He has let his concealing magic go, so when he gives Dean his final, parting glare, his eyes are more vibrant than Dean has seen them in years, and the gold crescents beneath them shine brighter than they rightfully should in the dull light of the kitchen. His hair hides his ears, but Dean still knows that the tips of them are bound to be elongated, sharp at the end instead of rounded.

He doesn’t really look like Mary. His markings are the wrong color, his eyes are more hazel than green, his hair looks like their dad’s, albeit a hell of a lot longer—but their mom is still _there_ , staring Dean in the face for the first time since he shut her out, and his mouth goes dry.

“Read it,” Sam says, pointing at the small, leather-bound journal that now sits between them. “If you want. I don’t care. Stupid spell I found doesn’t work, anyway.”

He turns on his heel and stomps away, all the way through the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. He slams his door shut behind himself, and the house plunges into silence.

Dean presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to focus on taking deep, even breaths. He always hates fighting with Sam, but this fight in particular? He can already tell that it’s bad. He can feel it in his gut, where his anger has turned sour and stale. It’s bad because even though they fight over plenty of small stuff on a daily basis, they never fight about _Mom_.

Bringing her into it feels wrong.

It takes a while for Dean to gather himself enough to drop his hands, but once he does, the empty kitchen that awaits him looks depressingly mundane. The shadows in the room grow deeper with every minute that passes, thanks to the fading light outside the windows, but it seems fitting for Dean’s mood, so he doesn’t bother to turn on any more lights.

Mary’s journal shouldn’t be nearly as intimidating as it is, and yet the sight of it sitting in front of him terrifies Dean to his core. He stares at it for longer than he cares to admit before giving into the urge to reach out and slide it off the counter. The leather is smooth and soft beneath his fingers, and it’s clearly the handmade type of journal as opposed to the store-bought.

There’s a small, stamped name in the lower corner of the cover, and Dean reverentially runs his thumb across it.

_‘Mɛri ‘K._

He takes a deep breath and flips it open.

Mary’s handwriting is both familiar and foreign. Dean doesn’t read much as he flips pages, but he can’t help but see every mention of his name, and every mention of Sam’s. They start every entry, but they also occur frequently within the writing itself, proving that she truly did have her sons in mind when she was working on this journal.

For being all that is left of her, though, it feels so… _plain_. Too small, to properly encapsulate who Mary was and what she meant.

Dean swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat and flips through several pages at once. The page that falls open next is clearly worn, opened to more than any other, and it’s easy to see why.

The page is torn diagonally, the lower right corner long gone. What’s left is written in a mix of English and Fae and, from what Dean can tell, is responsible for Sam’s dumb, ill-advised desire to go to the Fae Realm.

The message at the top is still legible.

 

 _Din_. _ˈSæm. I should have taken you home with me long ago. You deserve to be there, and one day, you’ll see that. I know you will make our family name proud, maɪ sʌnz._

_If I cannot be there to open the door for you, let this journal be your guide._

 

Beneath that, only the beginnings of each line remain. The first seems to say something about a circle of flowers, but what kind of flowers, there’s no way of knowing. After that is writing in the Fae language, but while Dean suspects it’s an incantation of some kind, there isn’t nearly enough left to guess what it may have been.

Dean has to give it to his father—the man knew what he was doing.

As he left, though, Sam had mentioned a spell he had found. It makes sense, if he has been trying to fill in the blanks, but where…

He turns another page and finds a yellow sticky note, covered in Sam’s curly handwriting. At the top of the note, he’s written, _heart flower??_ , followed by a small list of potential interpretations. All of them are crossed out except for _rose_ , which is circled. After that, he has a few lines of Fae text, which seem to pick up exactly where Mary’s note was torn off.

The fact that Sam’s countless hours of research have apparently boiled down to this single, three-by-three note might not seem like much, but as he reads the lines again and again, Dean can feel the weight of them, and knows it’s more than that. The Fae are a secretive people, hidden from humans in every possible way, and that means that this kind of research, this unknowable knowledge that Sam has come up with—it’s worth a hell of a lot more than any common person would guess.

Dean knows he’s supposed to be mad, but he can’t stop the swell of pride in his chest at the realization. As much as he hates to admit it, Sam did good.

Even if his spell didn’t work.

But maybe that’s because of the heart flower part. Maybe it means something more like—

Right then, there’s a scraping sound against the side of the house. Dean snaps the journal shut and whips around to face the window, but it’s fully dark outside now, so there’s nothing to be seen in the backyard. He listens hard, straining all of his senses as he tries to figure out what the hell it was that he heard.

A minute passes, then another. The sound doesn’t repeat, and nothing else disturbs the silence of the night.

Dean begins to relax. He probably imagined it. That, or it was probably just a bird, or a raccoon, or something equally innocent. Nothing worth being paranoid about.

He glances back down to the journal in his hands, and just when he does, he hears a window break. Not a window downstairs, though, a window _upstairs_ , which means—

“ _Dean_!”

“Sam!” Dean is running before he even realizes it, Mary’s journal being thrown to the counter and immediately forgotten. He sprints for the stairs with a speed that definitely isn’t human and then lunges his way up them, Sam’s continued shouting fueling him the entire way. He crashes through Sam’s bedroom door only seconds later, and stops still at what he finds on the other side.

There’s a woman in Sam’s room, standing opposite of where Sam is clutching at a wooden baseball bat in self defense. She’s shrouded in a cloak and her face is behind a mask, but the pointed ends of her ears are incredibly obvious. Dean sees the nature of them in an instant, and fully recognizes the danger they pose.

The same can be said for the dagger in the woman’s hand.

Dean advances a step, panic gripping him. “Sammy, get back—”

“He’ll do no such thing, human,” the masked Fae growls. “He doesn’t deserve to live.” Then, faster than Dean could ever hope to react, she flips the dagger between her fingers and throws it through the air. It finds its target easily, the blade sinking into Sam’s stomach without resistance. His bat slips from his fingers.

“ _No!_ ” Dean screams and launches himself forward, intent on getting his hands on the Fae who dared to break into their house and _try to kill his little brother_ , but before he makes it more than halfway there, the woman says something in her native tongue too quick for Dean to follow, and then she dives out through the broken window and vanishes.

For a moment, Dean is still determined to try to follow her. If he can just get down to the yard, follow the son of a bitch, wring her neck and make her pay—

“Dean.”

And then the entire world seems to stop.

Dean’s ears are ringing by the time he turns back toward Sam, his panic mixing with fear. There is blood blossoming across his shirt, blooming out from the silver hilt of the dagger that’s buried in his stomach and rapidly staining his white shirt red. His hand hovers above the hilt like he’s unsure if he should touch it or not, but the reality of the situation hits him before he can decide, and his knees buckle beneath him.

Dean is there to catch him before he hits the floor.

“No no no, Sam, don’t you _dare—_ ” He cradles Sam’s head as he guides him down to the ground, and is as careful as possible not to disturb the dagger sticking out of him. Sam fists a hand in his shirt and stares up at him with wide, fear-filled eyes, their Fae-brightness only making his terror easier to see. “Sammy, hold on for me, alright? You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna fix this.”

Sam starts to shake his head, but quickly stops again with a hiss of pain. “Dean, it—it hurts.” His fingers scrabble for better purchase against Dean’s shoulder, so Dean catches the hand with his own to give Sam something to hold onto. “More than the knife, it—it _burns_ , all over, it feels like—”

“Hey hey, it’s okay,” Dean interrupts. He thinks he gets what Sam is trying to say; he was just stabbed by a Fae hitman, for god’s sake, it seem sickeningly fitting that the weapon of choice would also be coated in poison. A standard Fae can probably survive this sort of thing, so from a hitman’s perspective, an extra guarantee of death likely makes sense.

Standard Fae.

Dean’s solution hits him like a slap to the face.

“Sam.” He leans over his brother, making sure that he establishes eye contact even though Sam’s eyelids seem to be drooping. Dean is still panicking, more terrified than he’s ever been in his life, but he has the beginnings of a plan, and _that_ —that is something that can motivate him. If he can pull this off, he can save his brother. He knows he can.

“Sam, I need you to hold on for me, okay? Don’t close your eyes, no matter what. Stay awake, little brother.”

If Sam hears him, he gives no indication of it. His eyes are unfocused and he’s shaking with pain, but Dean can’t let that deter him. He tries to be gentle as he lifts Sam into his arms, but the kid is heavy, the position is awkward, and the dagger in his gut is like a taunt, impossible to forget for even a second. Still, though, Dean manages it. He’s too desperate not to.

The trip down the stairs and out of the house happens in a blur, but the next thing Dean knows, they’re out in the backyard, the cool night air washing over the blood that is now covering them both. It’s on Dean’s hands, soaked into his shirt, but it’s also the last thing on his mind. He puts Sam down on the grass, then sprints back inside to grab Mary’s journal off the kitchen counter. His hands are shaking as he turns it open to the page with Sam’s spell note.

“You dumb son of a bitch,” he grumbles as he pulls it out. He’s in the grass beside Sam, now, a hand on his brother’s chest to ensure that his heart is still beating. “All that researching got you the wrong kind of attention, so if this works, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Sam makes a faint, pitiful sound in response. Dean has to swallow back a sob.

Heart flower. If it’s not roses, it could be any of the other flowers that Sam listed on his sticky note. It could be _anything_. But Dean is pressed for time, so that means he doesn’t have the liberty to sit around and deliberate over all of the possible interpretations, which means what he _is_ going to do is improvise.

He reads the lines of the spell a few times over, committing them to memory, then he flips the book back closed and holds it tight against his chest.

The Fae are literal. He remembers that from his mom, and what she had managed to teach him about her culture before her death. And if they’re literal, they say what they mean, so maybe if the door calls for a flower from the _heart_ —

Dean plants his free hand in the grass beside Sam’s ribcage, closes his eyes, and recites the spell. As he speaks, dandelions erupt all around him, forming a perfect circle around himself and Sam. They grow thicker and taller with every word that passes his lips, until finally he concludes, “ _ˈOʊpən ðə dɔr_.”

The night sky splits open on command, and a bright, blindingly-white light pours out over them. Dean moves his hand from the grass onto Sam’s chest, needing to hold onto him for his own sanity. The light swells, momentarily reforms itself into a disk, and then sweeps over them in full.

Between one blink and the next, the backyard of their childhood home disappears. In its place is a patio of smooth stone, neatly-trimmed hedges and overgrown flowers, and bright sunshine. It’s a sharp contrast to what they left behind, and Dean’s head spins.

There’s also a man, standing directly in front of him. Dean blinks against the brightness of the sun and struggles to make out any of the man’s features, but since Dean is on his knees and the stranger is standing, it’s difficult to see much. He thinks he sees blue eyes, dark hair, and a whole lot of shock.

“Did we make it?” Dean asks. He looks around in an effort to gauge his surroundings, but it looks like… a garden? There’s little to be seen but green, and that tells Dean absolutely nothing.

“Tell me we made it,” he babbles on. He tries to look back up at the man, but he turns too quickly, and the spinning in his head gets much worse than it already had been. Even though he’s already kneeling, he starts to lose his balance, can’t keep himself upright.

“Please,” he says. “Please, I need someone to… help him.”

The man in front of him also drops to his knees, but when he speaks, his words are lost to the ringing in Dean’s ears. He sees another flash of blue eyes, vaguely recognizes the man’s elongated ears, and then darkness overwhelms all of it.

The last thing Dean remembers before he passes out is the feeling of Sam’s heartbeat beneath his palm, faint, but still there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gradually, the room comes into focus. It’s small and cramped, with stone walls and a stone floor, and the cot beneath Dean is the only piece of furniture breaking up the monotony of it. There’s a single, heavy wood door set into one of the walls, with a barred opening in the top which admits the only light for Dean to see by. 
> 
> He’s in a dungeon. 
> 
> Sam was stabbed, Dean tried to get them to the Fae Realm, and now he’s in a _dungeon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, amigos! 
> 
> So, I know I said I wasn't going to be updating this fic on any sort of schedule, or in any sort of a rush--and that's still true. But how could I possibly let a fic sit for any length of time when it doesn't even have Cas in it yet? I'm not an ANIMAL
> 
> So here's chapter two! Bit more of the world taking shape and, of course, some Cas. <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Dean comes to, everything is dark. His head feels heavy and his thoughts are slow, but he pushes himself up into a sitting position regardless, and blinks rapidly in an effort to get his eyes to adjust to his surroundings.

Gradually, the room comes into focus. It’s small and cramped, with stone walls and a stone floor, and the cot beneath Dean is the only piece of furniture breaking up the monotony of it. There’s a single, heavy wood door set into one of the walls, with a barred opening in the top which admits the only light for Dean to see by.

He’s in a dungeon.

Sam was stabbed, Dean tried to get them to the Fae Realm, and now he’s in a _dungeon_.

He assumes that the dungeon means they made it to their destination, even though he doesn’t remember much of what had happened after he opened the door. But if he made it to the Fae Realm and now he’s locked in _here_ —

Where the hell is Sam?

Dean shoves up to his feet and stumbles over to the door, hissing at the touch of the cold floor against his bare feet—and Christ, if his lack of shoes doesn’t prove just how woefully underprepared Dean was for all of this, he doesn’t know what does. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, too, so he ends up hanging onto the bars to keep his balance. He pulls on the door and rattles it on its hinges, but of course, it’s locked tight and doesn’t budge.

“Hey!” he shouts into the hall beyond his prison. He can see a few other cells and the flickering light of torches mounted on the walls, but he’s sure there has to be guards somewhere. There has to be _someone_ who can hear him. He shakes the door again. “Hey, let me out of here! Where the hell is my brother? Get me the fuck out of this cell, or I swear to god, I’ll make you regret it!”

If Dean is truly in a Fae dungeon, any threats he can make are guaranteed to be empty. He doesn’t stand a chance against the Fae and he knows it—but that isn’t going to stop him from shouting anything and everything he possibly can, if there’s any chance in hell that it will get him his captor’s attention.

At first, it doesn’t. Dean screams and shouts and demands to be released until he starts to go hoarse, and although he doesn’t have any true indicator of how much time is passing, he can tell that it’s taking too long. He needs to be noticed, needs to be let out, needs to find Sam and make sure he’s _alive_ —

Then, down at the far end of the hall, a door opens. Dean immediately falls silent when he hears it, and presses his face as close to the bars as he can to try to see down the hallway. A pair of heavy footsteps approach, and then eventually, two guards stop directly in front of Dean’s cell.

Their Fae features are immediately disorienting, and Dean recoils from the bars without quite meaning to. Their faces are just so _sharp_ , their pointed ears so unlike what Dean is used to seeing. Even their markings seem wrong; Mary had silver markings beneath her eyes, just like Dean’s, while Sam’s are golden. These guards, though, both have blue markings. The man’s are light blue and the woman’s are darker, and it probably shouldn’t be so strange, but it _is_.

The woman gives Dean an unimpressed look. “You’re a noisy one, aren’t you?” she says, no shortage of venom in her voice. “The king wants to speak with you. Stand away from the door. Try anything, and you will sorely regret it.”

The king? Dean swears internally. If he’s anywhere near the Fae king, the dungeon makes sense. Figures, really, that of all the places for the door to put Dean, it left him somewhere he was instantly locked up.

But at the same time—who would have better resources to help Sam than a king?

Dean swallows hard, and takes a clear step back from the door to his cell. The female guard gives him a small nod of approval, then unlocks the door and pulls it open. Once the door is out of the way, Dean can see that each guard has an iron staff strapped to their hip, silent threats of what could happen if Dean decides to be a prick.

He clenches his jaw, intent on keeping it shut, and lets the guards escort him out of the dungeon.

They travel up a long staircase and then down several halls, the guards almost painfully silent all the while. The castle (because it clearly _is_ a castle that they are in, a grand, marble-lined palace fit for the king Dean is being led to) is impossible for Dean to map in his mind, and also apparently devoid of other people. Though, Dean isn’t sure if that last detail is a good or bad thing.

On the one hand, it’s probably best that Dean doesn’t have to see any other Fae, or be ogled. He’s covered in dried blood, and the humanness of his attire is already making him twitchy for how badly it stands out. The guards are both wearing loose fabrics and leather armor over it; Dean, on the other hand, has worn jeans and exposed feet.

Dean may as well be some homeless lunatic that was dragged in off the street. And that’s _without_ factoring in the dried blood that is all over him.

At the same time, though, while Dean is glad to not have to face any other Fae just yet… The emptiness of the castle is worrying. It only makes Dean more anxious, and has fear twisting in his stomach by the time they finally reach their destination.

Dean is staring at the door even before the male guard gestures for him to stop walking. It’s huge, probably taller than Dean’s entire house, and set with ornate jewels and stones which turns it into a tapestry filled with more stories than Dean could ever hope to decipher. Every image is organized around a central sigil, an oversized three with tangled roots and branches which seem to move with a life of their own, despite the medium they are created out of.

It takes Dean’s breath away.

“Watch yourself,” the female guard whispers to him, forcing him back to reality, and then the tree splits down the middle, and the doors swing outward to admit them. The guard uses her staff to jab Dean between the shoulder blades, forcing him forward into the next room.

Into the throne room. Dean has never been in a castle before, but he’s seen more than enough fantasy movies and tv shows to be able to identify the most important room on sight anyway. The marbled floor is slightly darker than it had been in the hallway, and the walls are such a dark grey, they’re nearly black. If it weren’t for the light of the large, circular window set in the wall to the right, the darkness would be suffocating.

By contrast, the throne itself practically shines—gold or bronze or some other material altogether, Dean has no idea. Its circular design is inlaid with a pattern that he has no hope of deciphering at his current distance, but it doesn’t make a difference. What matters is that the throne is bright and intimidating and even in a world where Dean doesn’t know the rules of the culture, he knows it shows power.

Judging by the posture of the man sitting in the throne, slightly slouched yet wholly attentive, Dean would say that _he_ knows it, too.

The guards push Dean forward until he’s directly in front of the throne, only a few feet away from the raised steps it sits upon. The female guard keeps the blunt end of her staff pressed against Dean’s spine until the king gives her a slight nod, at which point she and her companion both move back to leave Dean standing on his own. Exposed.

The king takes a moment to look him over, his eyes as sharp as his features as they pluck out everything that could possibly be wrong with Dean’s appearance. Or at least, that’s what it feels like they’re doing; the Fae king’s eyes are such a piercing blue that standing below him, Dean feels like they can see right through him.

He fights the urge to fidget by keeping his chin raised, and staring right back at the king. He catalogues the man’s elongated ears, his silver-blue markings, his dark, messy hair and flowing, white shirt. He looks both regal and not, but either way, he certainly doesn’t look like the kind of person who takes well to being fucked with.

But Dean isn’t afraid of him. He refuses to be. And he isn’t Fae, either, not really, so he’s damn well not going to cower or kneel like he’s sure he’s supposed to.

A few seconds tick past in silence, and then recognition clicks in Dean’s mind.

“I saw you when I first got here,” he blurts. “When I came through the door. Right?”

An unreadable expression crosses the king’s face. “Yes,” he concedes. Then, after a moment of hesitation, “You appeared at my feet, in the middle of the palace garden. Would you care to explain _how_?”

“Uh—” The question brings Dean up short. He frowns up at the king. “I really would have expected that part to be obvious. I had a spell, it opened a door, and I got spit out in front of you.”

Something about that answer—the sass? the lack of reverence?—is clearly not what the Fae king wanted to hear. “No,” he growls, his lip curling into a snarl. “Explain how you came to be in the _garden_. My garden. That kind of magic does not work on palace grounds. You should never have been able to open a door directly here as you did, so answer me, before I have you thrown back in the dungeon.”

In spite of his efforts to not let the king intimidate him, his threat sends fear sparking through Dean. The dungeon doesn’t actually mean much to him, but if he gets locked back away, then he won’t get to know what happened to Sam, and if he doesn’t know what happened to Sam…

Truth be told, he doesn’t really want to know what he will do, if it comes down to that. Because nothing good will happen, that much is for sure.

But of course, there’s a major issue with what is being asked of him.

He has no fucking clue how his spell got him there.

“I don’t know how I got here,” he admits. His budding panic is audible in his voice, he knows, rushing his words, but its grip is too tight for him to do anything about it. “It was just some spell, I swear. I needed to get here to find help, so I did. The guy that was with me, is he—”

The king shoves up out of his throne and Dean abruptly cuts off, his throat closing up with fear. All he can do is watch as the Fae descends the stairs and comes to stand directly in front of him. The king’s features may as well be carved from ice, with how rigid and menacing they have gone. He looks like a man who could kill, and is fully prepared to do just that, if tested.

Even if he is an inch or two shorter than Dean, as Dean can’t help but notice once they are standing toe-to-toe. It’s an observation which momentarily throws him.

And then the king is snarling in his face, and Dean’s fears are swimming right back to the surface. He barely resists the urge to flinch away.

“And that is another thing,” the Fae says. “You come into my land. Force yourself into _my_ home, when you have no right to do so. And you do so with a dying Fae at your side. You have hurt one of my people, on top of everything else. You have one final chance to explain yourself, human, before I decide that even the dungeon is too good for you.”

“One of _your people_?” Dean repeats, incredulous. For a moment, he doesn’t grasp what the king is saying. He had _Sam_ with him, and Dean definitely hadn’t hurt anyone. It isn’t until he belatedly hears what the king called him that all of the pieces slot into place.

“No,” he says quickly, hands raising in a show of self-defense when he sees the king’s lip twitch. “No, that’s not what happened! Sam is my _brother_ , I didn’t hurt him. I brought us here to get him _help_. He wasn’t gonna stand a chance in a normal hospital. Getting him here was my only hope.”

In his mind’s eye, he sees it again. He sees the intruder standing in Sam’s room, sees the glint of the dagger, sees its wickedly-sharp edge sink into his little brother’s stomach without a shred of resistance.

There’s heavy weight on Dean’s chest, keeping him from taking a full breath, and he has to swallow hard before he finds his tongue again.

“Tell me he’s okay.”

The Fae king blinks. His anger had gradually faded away as Dean spoke, but it’s almost impossible to tell what emotions have replaced it. Dean already resents the fact that the guy is so difficult to read.

A beat passes, and then the king says, “He is in the infirmary.”

All of the air rushes from Dean’s lungs at once, and his knees threaten to buckle under the force of his relief. ‘In the infirmary’ isn’t dead. It means he’s getting help. It means he might make it, and that means that Dean _succeeded_.

Before Dean can figure out how to put any of that into words and get out the thanks that is owed, the king raises his chin.

“Is he the one who worked the spell to bring you here?”

It takes Dean a moment to switch gears and get back to the interrogation, but once he does, his brows pull together in confusion. “No, _I_ opened the door. I already said that.”

The king frowns. “Even without taking into account the fact that you broke through several barriers to get here, opening that kind of door requires a tremendous amount of power.”

Dean snorts because, yeah, no _shit_. He’s still amazed that he pulled it off, but the fact that he passed out immediately after arriving in the Fae Realm proves how difficult it truly was. Maybe he hadn’t thought of it in terms of magic or power, but he still _knows_.

The king’s eyes narrow. “Many Fae would struggle with a portal like the one you traveled through,” he continues, “so tell me on how a _human_ succeeded in doing it. What magic did you use? Give me the truth; no games.”

Dean opens his mouth to give the king the answer he’s asking for, but then the reality of it hits him, and he snaps his jaw back closed.

The king thinks he’s human. The king thinks he’s human because he _looks_ human. Which is probably fair, but…

Admitting the truth means letting go of the single mode of defense which has held Dean together for the longest. It’s been fifteen years since his mom died, and his Fae blood became something to ignore instead of appreciate. Fifteen years of hiding, lying to himself, pretending to be something he’s not.

It’s a hell of a long time.

But—necessity.

Dean takes a shaky breath. “Half human.”

The king blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Me and my brother. Half human.”

The Fae is going to question it, Dean can see it in his eyes, so he acts before he has the chance. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, reaches for the magic that keeps him concealed, feels its familiar curves and edges—and lets it go.

Dean’s skin tingles as the magic fades away. It’s been so long since he last went without it that he feels… weird. Like he’s had paint all over him, and only just washed it off after growing accustomed to the weight of it on his skin, caked and dried. It feels like he can _breathe_ properly.

Jesus, it’s _so_ weird.

The king’s eyes widen with surprise as Dean’s appearance changes, and he sways back, letting a bit more space finally come between them. This time, Dean doesn’t feel a need to fidget as he’s stared at; he squares his shoulders and lets the king look his fill, determined not to crack under the stress of it all. He knows what it is that the king is seeing now, anyway.

Overly-green eyes highlighted with flakes of gold. Elongated ears with tips that aren’t quite as sharp as they maybe should be, but are certainly not rounded, either. Silver crescents beneath his eyes, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that shine, in the right light. It’s been awhile, but it’s nothing Dean hasn’t stared at himself, in the past.

By human standards, he’s a freak.

By Fae standards… Well. He doesn’t actually know what the hell the Fae will think of him. Probably the same.

Eventually, the king blinks. He seems to become more aware of himself when he does, and all at once, the last of his hostility drains away from the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Right. I see.” He clears his throat, then glances over Dean’s shoulder at the guards. He makes some vague gesture with his hand that Dean doesn’t quite catch, then returns his attention to Dean. “This answers several of my questions, then. The young Fae who arrived with you. You say he is your brother? He is also half-human, I would assume?”

“I, um—” Now it’s Dean’s turn to clear his throat. He needs to buy himself the extra second, process the swift change in subjects. He had been expecting more of a focus on _himself_ , really. He thought there would be more than just that brief moment of surprise when he revealed his Fae-ness, that the king would have more follow-up questions for him. But of course, switching to Sam isn’t a bad thing. It’s the exact opposite, in fact. “Yeah. Yeah, Sam’s half, too.”

The king nods, a distant, thoughtful look coming into his eyes. “I will have to pass that along to his caretakers. It will likely help them tend to his recovery.”

Dean swallows thickly. _His recovery_. “Can I see him?”

“No,” comes the king’s immediate response. Dean’s hackles raise just as quickly, but before he can even begin to fight back, the king raises a hand. “Not yet. Your brother is alive, and I will prove that to you in due time. And until then, I will have a room made up for you, and fresh clothes delivered so that you may clean yourself up.”

“I don’t want a room!” Dean shouts back. Now that he knows Sam is alive and somewhere nearby, now that he knows he’s being _kept from him_ —Dean doesn’t have the patience to be polite. He isn’t going to sit back and just let this happen. “What I want is to see my brother. So if you don’t take me to him, I swear to god, you pompous son of a—”

“ _Kæsti_ ɛ _l_.”

Dean loses his rant mid-sentence. He stares at the king, unsure of what it was he just heard. “What?”

“Castiel,” the Fae repeats. The word takes on a more human shape this time, is easier for Dean’s mind to grasp. “My name. I offer it as a gesture of good will. And may I ask yours in return?”

“Um.” So that’s where they are, with this. Maybe the king— _Castiel_ —isn’t trying to spite him by keeping him from Sam. A name might not be a hugely significant ‘gesture of good will’, as far as Dean is concerned, but… it’s an attempt. It’s something.

Dean deflates, his temper easing back away. “Dean.”

Castiel dips his chin in a nod. “It is good to meet you, Dean. Now, if you will. Hester and Gadreel will show you to your room. You will not leave it, but I will send for you soon. There will be much more for us to discuss.”

“And I’ll get to see my brother?”

“I promise it.”

Dean stares at the king for another drawn-out moment, looking for any hint of a lie or deception. He doesn’t know if he can trust Castiel (or is _Kæsti_ ɛ _l_ a more accurate name? Or does Dean even care that much?), but based on the earnestness he sees in the Fae’s eyes, the somber slope to his mouth… Dean thinks he might want to.

So he takes the risk, and nods in agreement. “Fine. But—” Dean points a finger directly into the king’s face. “Keep me from him for too long, and I swear to god, you’ll regret it. You hear me?”

Castiel, for his part, doesn’t so much as flinch. His lips tick up into the barest hint of a smile. “Loud and clear, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t have anything left to say to that, so he doesn’t bother to try. He turns on his heel and starts back toward the exit to the throne room, leaving the king where he stands without so much as a backwards glance. The two guards who led Dean in fall into step around him, one ahead of him and the other behind, and lead him through the castle in the opposite direction of the dungeon. When they ultimately stop walking, it’s in front of an intricately-carved wooden door—because apparently, the Fae don’t joke around when it comes to interior decorating.

The male guard (what had the king called him? Gadreel?) opens one of the doors and gestures for Dean to step through. As soon as he does, the door is closed behind him, shutting him off and locking him away. Panic starts to bubble up in Dean’s core, but he swallows down against it and forces himself to breathe.

So he’s locked in a bedroom. It’s better than a dungeon, really. He also has a promise to see Sam, and a cautious trust in the king to back that up.

Overall, his situation may not be perfect, but it _has_ improved, and that has to count for something.

Dean heaves a sigh. At least if he’s going to be locked up, it’s in a swanky castle suite. Not that he cares much for the details of it all right now; it’s gaudy and shiny and coated in wood and soft greens and golds, and that alone tells Dean plenty. He crosses the room and throws himself onto the giant, plush bed, and settles in to wait for the king to call him back. He needs to wash up, change clothes, but all of that—all of that can be dealt with later.

He hopes to god he doesn’t have to wait too long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean talks to the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! How's it hanging? Good? Good! 
> 
> I cannot believe November came and went as quickly as it did. It went full Jeremy Bearimy, lads. I SWEAR halloween was just LAST WEEK. Good god. My disconnect is probably in part due to nanowrimo, but, uh... yeah. You know. 50k on a single fic will kill productivity in just about every other category. 0_0
> 
> But aside from continuing that nano fic, this and For Every Hunter are back to being my main focuses! Huzzah! So, here. Have an update. <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He doesn’t quite _realize_ that he does, either, at least until, between one blink and the next, his thoughts turn slow and syrupy. He almost isn’t sure that it actually happened, but when he rushes to push himself into a sitting position, he can tell that the light in the room has shifted slightly, the angle of the sun through the window different than he had previously been.

Dean swears under his breath, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes to get rid of the heaviness he can feel lingering there. After, he forces himself to stand from the bed—a feat, really, considering how absurdly comfortable it is—and sets about pacing the room to wake himself back up.

He doesn’t know how much time he lost, but he doesn’t think he was out for too long. There aren’t any clocks in his bedroom prison, because of course there aren’t. Do Fae even use clocks? Are clocks a thing in the Fae realm? Shit, if Dean doesn’t even know where the Fae stand on clocks, how is he supposed to survive his time in this world at all?

He does a quick check of his pockets, but of course, his phone isn’t with him. Not that much of a surprise, really, given how he left home. The murder attempt against his brother and then subsequent trip through a magic portal were somewhat more important than staying connected. Go figure.

If he had to guess, though, he would say that those same factors are what also led to his impromptu nap. It’s been a hell of a… however many hours it’s been. (It was night when he left his home realm, but daylight when he reached the Fae realm, so where does that leave him?)

And he might not be used to using his magic, but that doesn’t mean he can’t recognize the signs of exhaustion. It’s like he exercised in a new way, worked a muscle he isn’t used to working, and now he needs to rest and recuperate.

Logically, it makes sense.

But that doesn’t mean he _likes it_.

Dean sighs and looks down at his hands. The blood stains aren’t quite as noticeable now as they had been, but the pinkish-red blotches are still undeniably _there_. Dean wrinkles his nose at the sight of it, and plucks morosely at the dried blood on his clothes. He probably shouldn’t let it sit any longer than he already has, so he resigns himself to cleaning up, as the king had previously suggested.

Fae royalty probably aren’t used to seeing people in gross human clothes, let alone people in gross human clothes covered in blood. Decorum, and all that. Dean’s sure that’s why Castiel promised him new clothes.

That, or the king is simply disgusted by the blood itself. He supposes that that’s possible, too.

Dwelling on the king is threatening to worsen Dean’s headache, though, so he doesn’t let himself do it for much longer. He finds the bathroom with ease—it’s the only door his bedroom has to offer aside from the door to the hallway—and is relieved to see that, aside from the Fae materials that make up the room, it looks remarkably normal. There’s a long counter with a sink set in the center, a mirror hanging above it, and a large bath taking up the far corner. There’s no shower, unfortunately, but a bath is better than nothing.

Dean can rock a bath.

He twists the handle on the faucet to start the bath filling, then wanders back into the bedroom to take inventory. His current clothes are filthy, so he would rather not put them back on after he washes up, but where does that leave him? There’s a wardrobe against the wall beside the bed, but it doesn’t take much investigating to see that it’s woefully empty. The same goes for the trunk at the bed’s foot, which is equally dismaying. As he continues to poke around the room, though, he finally finds what he’s looking for: a stack of folded clothes, sitting on a wooden shelf on the wall just beside the main door.

Dean supposes that someone must have tried to bring him clothes while he was asleep, but surprisingly, the fact that they simply opened the door and left the stack inside doesn’t bother him. At least he didn’t have to see anyone.

He grabs the clothes and takes them into the bathroom, where his bath is nearly ready. The room is pleasantly warm with the steam it’s emitting, and smells strongly of… Dean inhales deeply. Lavender and eucalyptus? It’s a pleasant enough combination, even if Dean probably wouldn’t have willingly chosen to literally bathe himself in it, if it weren’t an automatic thing.

But for now—he doesn’t care enough to fight it. As soon as the basin is filled enough, Dean strips himself down and steps into the aromatic water. It’s the perfect temperature (almost magically so, his mind supplies, which causes him to snort) so he has no issue sinking all the way in, the water coming up to his chin as he slumps down.

No matter how nice the entire arrangement is, though, Dean struggles to relax into it completely. It might be good for his body and his mind, no fancy bath could ever hope to distract him from his brother, when Sam needs him. And right now, while Sam is somewhere unfamiliar and being taken care of by strangers—

That certainly counts as needing Dean. Because if Dean isn’t there to keep all of this from going off the rails (more so than it already has, that is), who will?

Plus, given the fact that he already lost who-knows-now-long to a nap, Dean realizes that the king could be ready to talk to him at any time. Or what if he already is? What if Dean misses his window?

The possibility puts an itch of anxiety beneath Dean’s skin, so he hurries through the rest of his bath, pulling the plug on the drain as soon as his skin is free of blood. Once he’s managed to search out a towel and get himself dry, he returns to the pile of clothes, waiting beside the sink.

Fae clothes. Soft and silky. Folded, they look more like pajamas than they do regular clothes; they’re a far cry from the denim and flannel that Dean is used to.

He spares a brief moment to hope that the attire that was chosen for him won’t be as flashy as the king’s—Dean has no desire to look like an eighties rocker, thank you very much—then takes a deep breath for courage, and pulls the garments on.

When he gets it all in place, he can’t help but be relieved.

Because it actually looks… not half-bad.

The beige pants are a bit tighter across the thighs than he would like, but they don’t look obscene. And they don’t highlight his—well. _Anything_. Not like Castiel’s pants did. Not that Dean took any sort of notice. Or was even looking, for that matter.

Definitely not.

The shirt, though, is just as loose and flowy as the king’s had been, and is even the same color of white. Hell, it might as well just be the same shirt. The possibility has Dean’s cheeks coloring with embarrassment. Basic similarities doesn’t mean it _is_ the king’s shirt, but—well. They are similarly sized. And how is Dean to know where spare clothes are found in a place like this?

He hopes to god that no one else will see any parallels between his attire and the king’s. And, furthermore, he _really_ hopes that that isn’t the kind of thing that has some awful connotation in the Fae Realm that Dean has no chance of knowing about.

He doesn’t need to give these people any more reasons to laugh behind his back than they’re sure to already have.

Fucking hell, everything about this _sucks_.

Once he’s resigned to his new clothes, Dean goes to the bedroom’s main door and, for lack of anything better to do, raps his knuckles against the wood. He waits, unsure if it’s going to earn him any results, and then—

The left door swings in. It doesn’t move more than half a foot, but it startles Dean anyway, and he skitters back a few feet, getting out of the way. The guard who leans in through the gap in the door looks distinctly unimpressed.

It’s the guy. Gadreel? “I see you found your new clothes,” the Fae comments mildly.

“Oh, uh—yeah.” Dean plucks at his shirt. “I could still use some shoes, though. But actually, I wanted to ask—when can I see the king?”

Gadreel moves a half step further into the room and gives Dean a calculating look. “The king requested you be brought to him when you were suitably prepared. Are you?”

He doesn’t have to wait any longer. Thank god. Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “Don’t know how I can be any more prepared than I am right now,” he tells the guard.

The declaration earns him a raised eyebrow. “And the fact that you do not have shoes?”

Dean frowns. “I’ve made it this long, haven’t I? I’ll live. Take me to Castiel.”

Gadreel shrugs in a way that very clearly conveys the sentiment, _whatever, not my problem_ , then swings the door all the way open and gestures for Dean to step out into the hall. When he does, Gadreel lets the door close behind them, and falls into step directly beside Dean to lead him through the castle. Hester is nowhere to be seen; Dean doesn’t care enough to bother asking where she went.

Now that he’s rested and refreshed, it’s much easier for Dean to track his surroundings as he follows Gadreel through the halls. The castle still feels like too much of a twisting labyrinth for Dean’s liking, but he suspects that with a few more trips between his room and the king’s… wherever they’re going, he’ll be able to retrace his steps on his own, if need be.

Truth be told, though, he isn’t quite sure if that’s a skill he wants to have to flex or not. The king seems to be treating him well so far, and as long as that lasts, Dean shouldn’t have to sneak around or push his way into parts of the castle where he’s unwanted.

And if that turns, and Dean stops getting an escort for any reason—navigating the castle might just be the least of his concerns.

After a few minutes of walking, they come up to a door with a guard stationed on either side. It’s obviously their destination, but Gadreel still has the courtesy to tell Dean, voice pitched low so that the other two guards don’t overhear, “The king’s study.”

Dean nods, grateful for the tip. It’s clearly not the throne room again, but it’s good to know what he’s walking into instead. The king’s study sounds like a good place for a serious talk, which Dean supposes is probably fitting.

Even if he would still prefer to be going directly to Sam.

Gadreel goes straight to the door and knocks to request entrance. The guards guards hardly even look at him—though, that’s probably because they’re both too busy staring Dean down. They’re not quite glaring at him, but it’s a near thing.

Dean takes a quick glance at Gadreel to make sure he isn’t looking, then sticks his tongue out at the other guards.

From the looks of surprise and indignation which cross their faces (the left guard and the right guard, respectively), Dean’s willing to bet that it’s not a gesture the Fae use. It makes him grin, and he has to fake a cough to keep himself from bursting into laughter on top of that.

Worth it. No matter what kind of consequences there might be, somewhere down the line, for taunting the king’s guards—worth it.

There’s a muffled call from inside the study, and then Gadreel pushes the door open. Dean tosses a wink at the guards, just to fuck with them a little bit more, then strides into the study right on Gadreel’s heels.

The study, like the rest of the castle Dean has seen so far, is ridiculously gorgeous. Whereas Dean’s bedroom has an oak wood (or something like it) color scheme, the study is all birch. The lighter woods make the room feel even larger than it already is, and combined with the blue and white accent colors used throughout the decor, it’s surprisingly pleasant. Relaxing.

Damn. Dean can see why this is where Castiel chooses to do his studying.

The king himself is seated behind a desk in the center of the room, framed by a high-back chair and illuminated by a flood of sunlight from a skylight set in the high ceiling. He raises an eyebrow at Dean, the only movement in his otherwise stoic expression, and it makes Dean suddenly and painfully aware that he’s still grinning like an idiot.

(They’re definitely wearing the same shirt.)

His burst of a good mood fades, and he has to fight to keep back a blush of embarrassment. He covers by taking a pointed glance around the room and commenting, “Nice digs.”

Castiel’s bemusement quickly turns to confusion. He squints at Dean like he’s speaking a foreign language—although, Dean supposes that’s kind of fair. The Fae clearly speak English, but Dean’s personal vocabulary is bound to be different than whatever stiff rules the Fae follow. And Dean _could_ correct himself, but where would the fun be in that?

And maybe he also wants to cling to what little bit of _himself_ he can. He’s already changed his face, his clothes. His words are going to stay his own.

Castiel doesn’t seem to know how to respond to Dean’s statement, and after a few moments of squinting, he gives up trying. His gaze slides over to Gadreel.

“Thank you for bringing him,” the king says. “I will not need you to remain in here, however. I would like to speak with Dean in private. Wait in the hall.”

Gadreel dips into a quick bow and replies in his native tongue, “Jɛs, maɪ kɪŋ.”

And, there it is. Just when Dean let himself think about the language difference. Of course.

He’s never been more thankful for the fact that Mary taught him her native tongue than he is right now. Hell, given the circumstances, it’s practically a miracle.

Castiel probably doesn’t expect Dean to speak the Fae language, though, so Dean decides to keep it in his back pocket for the time being. He might learn more from Castiel if the Fae thinks he can have side conversations in front of Dean without being understood.

That’s how it tends to work on TV, anyway.

But this isn’t TV. As soon as Gadreel has left the study, door thudding closed behind him, Castiel gives Dean a calculating look and asks, “Du ju spik ðə faɪ tʌŋ?” _Do you speak the Fae tongue?_

Dean very nearly pouts. Figures, that he would ask. Dean doubts the guy came to be a king by accident, though, which means he’s probably not a dumbass; Dean should have given him more credit.

But since Castiel has asked, there’s no point in lying to him. Lying has much more potential to get Dean into trouble than simply withholding information does.

He takes a few seconds to think over his response, agonizing over it for fear of embarrassing himself. When he answers, he does so stiffly. “I do.”

Castiel’s eyebrows arch upward in surprise. He follows up, still in the Fae tongue, “Fluently?”

“I can get by.”

“Who taught you?”

“My mother.”

“Who was your mother?”

Dean’s lips part to answer that question just like he answered the ones before it, caught up in the rhythm, but he thinks better of it and snaps his jaw back closed. He’s sure the way his teeth clack together is audible, an answer in its own right; Castiel narrows his eyes.

But Dean isn’t going to risk giving that kind of information up. He doesn’t know why his mom left the Fae realm, and until he does, he isn’t going to risk endangering himself and Sam. Because what if their mom was a criminal? Or even just someone who was disliked?

He can’t say anything that might stop Sam from getting the help he needs.

When he can see that Dean isn’t going to talk, Castiel sighs and sits back in his chair. He reverts back to English, relieving Dean of the need to translate his every word. He’s immensely grateful for it. “Take a seat, Dean.”

Dean does as he’s told. Once he’s sitting, settling into the chair as comfortably as he can given that it’s stiff and wooden and awful, he flicks his chin up in a vague gesture for the king to continue. He knows that this interrogation is far from over, so they may as well get through it as quickly as possible.

Castiel considers him for a long moment before choosing his next question. When it comes, Dean is surprised by the direction it takes.

“Does your brother speak our language?”

Again with the lack of focus on _Dean_ when Dean is expecting it most. Like the first time he spoke with the king, though, Dean is content to roll with the punches. He shakes his head and answers, “Not very well. Our mom died when he was a baby, so I taught him. He’s never been as good at it as I am, but I guess that’s my own fault.”

Judging by the look Castiel gives him in response to that statement, he seems to disagree. “Actually, if it happened like you are making it sound, the fact that you were able to teach him at all is rather impressive. Our language can be tricky, especially to those without a predisposition to it. Though, with Fae blood in your veins, I suppose you _are_ predispositioned.”

Dean shrugs. Maybe they’re ‘predispositioned’, maybe they aren’t. It doesn’t make all that much of a difference to him. He taught Sam as best he could, but the answer he gave Castiel is still accurate. Sam doesn’t speak the language as well as Dean does.

Castiel drums his fingertips against the top of his desk. “It probably doesn’t matter much either way,” he concedes, following Dean’s thoughts almost exactly. “But it _is_ another detail I will have to pass along to Sam’s healers. It won’t do well for them to speak to him in our language if that will only strike him as foreign.”

That’s fair, Dean supposes. He doesn’t have anything noteworthy to say back to the king, though, so he sits in silence. However, the fact that he isn’t very chatty seems to be grating on Castiel. The king’s lip curls into a faint scowl, and he sighs heavily.

“If I am going to have to prompt you for every bit of information I need, Dean, we will be here all day. I am not above keeping us here all day, either. It will be easier on us both if you cooperate.”

Dean scoffs at him. “I’m not just gonna start blabbing until you know everything about me, pal. You might be a king, but you’re not _my_ king. I don’t know you. I need to look out for myself and my brother right now, because at the end of the day, Sam is all that matters. You got questions, I’ll answer them as best I can, but every one of them is going to be my own choice. I’m not playing mind games with you so that you can maybe get something extra out of me.”

For another long, drawn-out moment, Castiel stares at him. Dean holds his gaze, as defiant as ever, until finally—the Fae king cracks a smile.

“Questions it is, then,” he says, surrendering without any fight. Dean lets out a quiet breath of relief and nods to show his agreement. Direct questions are good. Direct questions, Dean can handle. “Let’s see how much we can accomplish, then. Shall we?”

“Go for it.”

“Do you have a family name, Dean?”

Dean gives him a dry smile. “Winchester.”

The king’s nose wrinkles. “Your human parent’s, I presume.”

“Yep.”

“It seems safe to assume that you will not tell me your mother’s familial name?”

“Nope.”

Castiel pulls open a drawer set in the side of his desk, out of Dean’s line of sight, and withdraws a familiar, leather journal. Dean stiffens at the sight of it, and only just manages to hold himself back from reaching out to snatch it off the table. It’s not Castiel’s, it’s _Dean’s_.

“You didn’t have any right to take that,” he bites out, voice shaking with—what, rage? Fear? Even as the emotion rattles Dean, he can’t be entirely sure what it _is_ that is rattling him. He just knows that he has to clench his hands to keep them from shaking. “That’s mine. And Sam’s. And why the hell are you asking me all of these questions if you’ve already read _that_ anyway? I told you I’m not playing games.”

“This is not a game, Dean, so spare me your accusations.” With a roll of his eyes, the king pulls the journal back toward himself, then flips it open. Dean is expecting to see his mother’s looping handwriting, Fae writing mixed with English and sprinkled through with every last secret Dean could have possibly hoped to keep from Castiel, but that isn’t what awaits him in the journal’s pages.

Every page is empty.

Dean’s stomach sinks. He hadn’t had the chance to read through all that his mother had left for them. Sure, just yesterday the thought of going through that journal made Dean’s stomach turn, but not wanting to read it and not getting to are entirely different things. She had used those pages to tell them so much, and now—

“Dean. I need you to calm down.”

Dean’s eyes snap back up to meet the king’s, and is genuinely surprised to see that the Fae looks… worried? Dean just stares at him, uncomprehending.

And still thoroughly _pissed_ , because that was his _mom’s journal_ —

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says again, though this time he accompanies the word with a gesture, baring his palms in Dean’s direction. “Please. Be calm. I have not destroyed your mother’s journal. I can explain this to you, but first, I need you to get a grip on your magic. I do not want to make my guards remove you, but I _will_ resort to that if I have to.”

Castiel’s eyes flick between Dean’s own eyes and… Dean follows his gaze downward and startles at the sight that awaits him. His hands are _glowing_. There’s light emanating from his palms and sparking between his fingertips, and when Dean notices it, he notices too that the air around him has turned heavy. Oppressive. Dean can practically taste it.

Anger and fear and danger.

It takes much too long for Dean to realize that it’s all _him_. The light in his hands is obviously his own, but the change in air pressure isn’t quite as easy to accept. It reminds him of the garage-stink that would cling to him after a long shift at work, except instead of smelling like gasoline and metal, the thickness in the air smells like ozone and the eucalyptus and lavender combination that Dean had bathed in.

It scares the hell out of him. The fear constricts in his chest, suffocatingly tight, and just like that, the light is gone and the air is cleared. Across the table, Castiel visibly relaxes.

“Thank you,” he says, so incredibly genuinely. Dean flushes with embarrassment, mortified by the fact that his magic got so out of control to begin with.

But he doesn’t want to dwell on that. Not right now. He can hate himself for losing control (and probably looking like a damn _child_ as a result, by Fae standards) later. Much later. When he’s alone and can beat himself up over it without anyone watching.

Fuck, how could he let his magic go like that? Without even realizing?

It’s like even his own body is determined to let him know just how in over his head he is.

Dean clenches his jaw and wrenches his focus back to the issue at hand. His slide toward the journal for a fraction of a second. “Why are the pages blank?”

“They aren’t.” Castiel gently picks the journal up and offers it over the span of the desk for Dean to take. Dean hesitates, not sure if it’s some kind of trick, but ultimately leans forward to take it. The leather is smooth and soft beneath his fingers, and it’s instantly soothing to something deep inside of Dean.

He flips the cover open on impulse, acting without thinking and maybe daring himself to take another look at the proof that all of his mother’s writing is lost, but—

“What the fuck?” He starts flipping through the pages, fanning his thumb across the edge of them to get his eyes on as many as he can at once. It’s back. Every single page is _back_ , right down to the partially torn out one with the spell for opening the door between worlds. It’s like it was never tampered with to begin with. Dean looks up, eyes wild. “What the hell did you do? How did you do that?”

Castiel answers him with a tight smile. “Your mother was a clever woman. That journal is guarded with a powerful spell. No one but yourself and your brother can lay eyes on it, unless explicit permission is given. If the content isn’t safe from prying eyes, it will disappear, as you saw. Right now, I cannot see it, so…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

Dean eyes him warily. “So… you can’t read this. At all.”

“No.”

“That seems to piss you off.”

The king doesn’t quite scowl at him, but it’s a very near thing. It’s probably the nearest Fae get, anyway, or at least that _Castiel_ gets. “It does, as a matter of fact. This would all be much easier if I had such a simple means of understanding who you are and where you came from. I know you don’t want me reading this journal anyway, but, that is the truth of the matter.”

Dean has to smirk at that. Damn right he doesn’t want Castiel reading his mom’s personal journal. The fact that this spell has stopped that from even being possible fills Dean with a vindictive sort of pride, and he loves Mary Winchester so damn much for thinking ahead.

It isn’t long before the expression fades into a frown, however. Dean asks, idly running his fingertips along the journal’s cover, “So this isn’t a spell you can break, then. You can’t get around it, unless I _want_ you to. No alternatives”

Castiel huffs. “Yes, that is the case.”

“Isn’t that the kind of spell that could go _really_ wrong in your line of work? I mean. You’re the king. The people around you could talk all sorts of shit about you, but if they cast this one tiny little spell, you won’t know about it even if it’s right in front of your face.”

Castiel smiles. Actually, truly smiles. Dean blinks in the wake of it, stunned to his core.

It’s a much better look on the king than the stiff broodiness that Dean has seen so much of, since he first walked into his study.

And Dean… doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“You have a sharp mind, Dean,” Castiel says, and Jesus Christ, that isn’t helping Dean’s current confusion. All of a sudden, the room feels too warm. “I appreciate that about you. As a matter of fact, this spell _could_ cause me a tremendous amount of trouble. Which is why use of it can be a punishable offense.”

Any warmth Dean may or may not have been feeling evaporates in an instant. His stomach drops sharply, and he pushes himself to sit up a bit straighter in his chair. “Now hold on, I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t.” Castiel smiles at him once more, this version more contained than the last, then slides his chair back and stands. The height advantage it gives him over Dean is staggering; Dean’s mouth goes dry, and he can only stare as the king circles around his desk to lean against the front of it.

Now that he isn’t being framed by his chair, he looks much less like a king. He looks too _casual_ , with his messy hair and plain, unadorned clothing. _Game of Thrones_ trained Dean to expect a lot more finery from nobility. Maybe more gold.

“And furthermore,” Castiel says, continuing his thought without a hitch, and as if Dean _isn’t_ currently struck silent and staring up at him, “This was your mother’s magic, not your own. Even if I were for some reason feeling vindictive enough to hold this against you, it wouldn’t be fair to act as if you are responsible for another’s magic.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath, more relieved than he cares to admit. Castiel is a reasonable guy, then. Good to know.

“Additionally, to further answer your question,” the king goes on to say, smile returning, “this particular kind of magic is very tricky to execute. Your mother must have been a very interesting Fae. I think you can see why I am so curious as to who she was.”

“Oh. Well, uh.” Dean fidgets in place as he processes that. What the hell is he supposed to say in return? He knows so damn little about his mom, it’s not like he can confirm or deny anything. He can’t even decide what to lie about, for god’s sake, because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He’s utterly blind in this scenario.

He cautiously offers, “She died when I was just a kid. I don’t know anything about her magic.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow slightly as he assesses Dean, but just like every other time Dean has been answer-less, the king accepts what he is being told. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to know her better,” he says.

Dean’s throat constricts, but he still manages to croak, “Yeah. Me too.”

For a moment, both of them are silent. Dean still doesn’t know what to say, but Castiel doesn’t push him. Dean is glad for it.

Eventually, Castiel pushes himself away from his desk and takes the few necessary steps forward to reach Dean’s side. Dean holds himself incredibly still even after the Fae king has laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and just a touch too warm for Dean to be able to ignore.

“Let’s go see your brother. We can talk more later.”

Dean sags beneath the weight of Castiel’s hand. “Yeah. Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is torn between being terrified and enraged by the sight they make. Terrified because he can’t believe it’s come to this—a bunch of strangers standing around his baby brother’s broken, barely-living body, in a medical wing of a castle that definitely doesn’t look anything like any hospital Dean has ever been in. The scent of incense is thick in the air, adding to the foreignness of it all. 
> 
> And enraged because, well. 
> 
>  
> 
> _That’s his brother._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! My gift to you is - angst! Enjoy! <3 
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, a quick note: to those of you keeping up with this fic in real-time, I made a minor edit to the previous chapter and downgraded Dean's fluency in the Fae language. I had initially said he was fluent, which was going to lead to every conversation being in the Fae language, but then I realized... that's not as fun as letting Dean _learn_ to be fluent. He now speaks it at a passable level. 5/10, maybe.)

Sam looks small.

Small and _broken_. Nothing like his normal self.

Maybe it’s the hospital-style cot he’s laying on, maybe it’s the thick, wool-like blanket that’s tucked up around his shoulders and hiding his body—Dean can’t really be sure what it is that’s making the effect so pronounced, but it’s something he notices immediately.

Then, the cluster of Fae standing all around Sam’s bed could also be responsible for how small he looks. They tower over the bed, dwarving their patient by comparison.

Dean is torn between being terrified and enraged by the sight they make. Terrified because he can’t believe it’s come to this—a bunch of strangers standing around his baby brother’s broken, barely-living body, in a medical wing of a castle that definitely doesn’t look anything like any hospital Dean has ever been in. The scent of incense is thick in the air, adding to the foreignness of it all.

And enraged because, well.

 _That’s his brother_.

And it was a Fae who caused this in the first place.

The group of Fae, all wearing long, gauzy, robes, such a light grey that they’re nearly white, turn toward the door when Dean and Castiel enter. They each dip their head in acknowledgement to their king, and press one of their fists to their chest in the same gesture Dean saw Gadreel make previously—because apparently the Fae don’t give up any opportunity to throw their respect at the king.

Still, Dean makes a mental note to remember that gesture. Given how many times he’s already seen it used, it might be a good idea to keep it in his own back pocket.

Castiel nods back at group, then strides across the room to meet them. Dean rushes to keep up, but with the way his eyes are continually drawn toward Sam, it’s hard to focus as much as he needs to.

“How is he doing?” Castiel asks, in English for Dean’s sake, and—fuck it. If that’s the pace this conversation Dean is going to take, he doesn’t have the patience. He blows right past the king and dodges the rest of the Fae in order to get to Sam’s side. When he’s there, he drops to his knees beside the bed and scans every bit of his brother that he can see. He looks just as Fae as the rest of the room’s occupants, thanks to the continued exposure of his _real_ features, but despite how much that throws Dean, it’s still _Sam_. The golden crescents beneath his closed eyes can’t disguise the fact that this is still the little brother Dean would give everything for.

He presses one of his palms over Sam’s chest in an attempt to find his heartbeat. It’s just as faint as it had been the last time Dean checked it. When there was still a knife lodged in his gut.

At least _that_ is gone, now. Thank god for small miracles.

A hand closes on Dean’s shoulder and pulls, the grip tight enough that even when he jerks against it, Dean can’t escape. He fists his own hand in the blanket that’s covering Sam’s body and snarls up over his shoulder.

“Lady, don’t you _fucking—_ ”

“Gilda!”

The Fae drops her hand away instantly, cowed by Castiel’s shout of her name. Dean huddles slightly closer to Sam’s bed and glares up at her. The other doctor Fae, at least, have backed off by a few feet; that’s probably the only thing that keeps Dean from straight-up growling at them like a feral animal.

“My king,” she says, in her native language rather than English, as the king done. Her head is bowed in a show of deferment even while her eyes narrow in Dean’s direction. “He should not be touching the patient. His health is tenuous at best, I do not believe it is a good idea to—”

“ _Gilda_ ,” Castiel interrupts again, and this time, he makes it clear that he’s forcing Dean’s language to be the standard for the conversation. “This is your patient’s brother. He has every right to be here, and you will not stop him from being with his brother as he sees fit. He is doing Sam no harm.”

Gilda’s head snaps up, and she stares hard at the king. Castiel waits her out, his expression unreadable, until the Fae finally turns back to Dean. She gives him a stiff smile, but despite the note of falseness to it, there is less irritation in her eyes than there had been before. Her English is only slightly stilted. “Well. I apologize for reacting as I did. Your brother’s well-being is currently my top priority, however, so I hope you can understand why my instinct is to be… protective.”

 _Protective_? Dean almost snorts at how absurd that sounds, but swallows the sound down when he sees that Castiel is watching him. He casts the king a quick, fleeting look, then returns Gilda’s tight smile. “Right. I appreciate you looking out for him. I’m protective, too.” He hesitates for a second, then tacks on, “I need him to get through this. He’s all I have.”

And that’s a bit more vulnerability than Dean would typically want to show in front of complete strangers (especially when one of those strangers is a goddamn _king_ ), but there doesn’t seem to be any sort of downfall to letting his desperation show. Castiel already knows that Dean will stop at nothing to get his brother back to full health—that’s what _got_ them here—and if Gilda is as dedicated to healing Sam as she claims, then it might be good for her to know that Dean is coming from the same place. If she really wants to help Sam, he won’t oppose her. He’s not a threat.

Judging by the way the Fae’s expression softens (and is Castiel’s doing the same in the background? Dean doesn’t dare look directly at him), he’d say the effort is successful. He lets out a breath of relief.

“We’re doing the best we can with your brother,” she says. She glances toward the other doctors—nurses? Healers?—then takes a few cautious steps forward. This time when she lays her hand on Dean’s shoulder, the touch is gentle. Reassuring. “Now that you are here, however, we may be able to help us. Castiel told us that your brother is half human?”

Dean’s throat is suddenly too tight for him to answer aloud, so he nods instead.

Gilda dips her chin. “Good. That provides answers to many questions we had before you spoke with Castiel.”

Meaning, while Dean was still in the dungeon. Because they thought he was Sam’s almost-murderer. Right.

“But there are still many more answers we need if we are going to save your brother. We need to know what happened to him.” The Fae’s hand momentarily tightens on Dean’s shoulder, and she gives him a soft smile that is utterly disarming. The markings beneath her eyes are pink, he suddenly notices, darker at the ends of the crescents than in the center; they’re ridiculously pretty against her tanned skin. Her smile widens. “What is your name?”

The question _pulls_ at something in Dean, on a fundamental level. The answer bubbles up in him, eager to be spoken. He _wants_ tell her his name. And not just his human name, his _real_ name, the one his mother would whisper to him at night back before he could even grasp the differences between his two names. He isn’t just Dean Winchester, he’s _Din_ ˈ _Ma_ ɪ _kəl_ ˈ _Kæmbəl_ , son of ˈ _M_ ɛ _ri Æn_ ˈ _Kæmbəl_.

His lips part, his name ready on his tongue.

And then suddenly Castiel is there, gripping Gilda’s wrist and yanking her hand off of Dean’s shoulder. As soon as her touch is gone, Dean takes a gasping breath, his vision going dark at the edges. He falls back onto his heels and has to clutch at Sam’s bed to keep from falling over completely. Suddenly, all he can feel is an aching in his knees from having them against the floor for so long, and a throbbing dullness in his back teeth.

Castiel, meanwhile, is snarling in Gilda’s face. “You will _not_ steal his Name. Half-human or not, he is our guest. I suggest you keep your enchantments to yourself, or you may just find yourself demoted from the position of Head Healer.”

Gilda once again bows to Castiel’s reprimanding (which seems to be about the only positive, here; at least the king’s authority isn’t meaningless), but her lower lip juts out in a pout. “Your grace, I meant no harm. I only intended to ply him to get the information we seek in an efficient manner. It will do him no harm, I do it with many of my patients—”

Castiel’s fingers tighten around her wrist; the healer winces ever so slightly. “No. I have already made my stance clear. Do not make me repeat myself.”

Gilda lowers her eyes. “Yes, my king.”

The king stares at her for another long moment, as if waiting to be sure her surrender is going to stick, then finally releases her wrist. That’s about the point when Dean stops paying attention; there’s a cold weight that has settled into his stomach, and in the aftermath of the touch of Gilda’s magic, it’s hard to continue caring about something as pointless as whatever additional, silent cues may be passing between the two Fae.

He knows so little about the Fae, but _this_ —this is clearly why humans view them as dangerous. Gilda’s magic barely even touched Dean, but he still felt so… _taken_ by it. If Castiel hadn’t stopped her, Dean would have told her his name. He would have told her anything, everything. His deepest, darkest secrets, if that’s what she asked for while smiling down at him with those warm, brown eyes.

And now that the enchantment (that’s the word Castiel used, right?) has passed, Dean can hardly remember why he was folding so easily to Gilda’s magic at all. All she had done was smile at him, and, sure, he’s been known to bend for a smiling human girl or two in the past, but not like _this_.

This has left him feeling… wrong. Deceived, though he can’t actually be sure if that feeling is directed more at himself or at the Fae who tried to enchant him to begin with.

He wrinkles his nose against the sour taste the whole affair has left in his mouth and fixes his eyes on Sam’s sleeping face.

Jesus, what the hell are they doing here?

“Dean?”

Dean blinks at the sound of the king’s voice, and reluctantly raises his gaze back away from Sam to look at him. Castiel is much closer than he had been before, now just a few feet away, and the look of concern on his face is, well. Concerning.

His voice is hoarse when he replies, “Yeah?”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “Are you alright?”

Dean glances toward Gilda for a fraction of a second—she looks much less emotionally invested than her king clearly is—then gives Castiel a forced smile. “Peachy. Let’s just talk about Sam and get this over with, alright?”

Because the sooner he can get this over with and be left alone, without any Fae picking at him—the better.

Castiel doesn’t seem thrilled with Dean’s answer, but he presses his lips into a thin line and nods nonetheless. “Yes. Let’s have a seat, shall we? This may be a long conversation.”

He gestures toward the other side of the room, then leads Dean over to a round, kitchen-sized table and the cluster of log stools which sit around it. Gilda follows as well, and when they sit, she ends up directly across the table from Dean, while Castiel is just to his left.

It’s an awkward amount of proximity to both of them. Dean clears his throat and tries to focus on anything _but_ the pair of Fae.

Luckily, it doesn’t take him long to find something.

“Where did the other—uh. Doctors, go?”

In his peripheral, Dean sees Gilda’s head cock to the side in confusion. Thankfully, though, it’s Castiel who answers him.

“I sent the other ˈ _hilərz_  out,” the king says, subtly correcting Dean’s terminology and filling in the proper Fae word among the English sentence. He leans forward over the table, his hands folding together on its surface. The movement draws Dean’s eyes, and then he can’t quite look away. Why the hell does the king of the Fae have to look like such an… eighties rockstar? “I thought you might be more comfortable talking about what happened to your brother in a smaller group.”

Dean’s glaze flits toward Gilda again. Castiel gives him a smile that he’s sure is meant to be reassuring. “Gilda is the castle’s Head Healer, and one of the best in the kingdom. She needs to know what happened to your brother more than anyone else. I can promise you, though, she will not use any more magic to sway you. This is _not_ how we treat guests in this castle.”

He cuts a hard look at the other Fae as he says that last part. It makes Dean’s stomach swoop in an odd sort of way. On one hand, he appreciates the effort the king is making to treat him well. Dean is glad to be considered a guest at all, instead of a prisoner, as he was before his first conversation with Castiel.

But on the other hand, he doesn’t know Gilda. He doesn’t know _Castiel_ , either, for that matter, but Gilda’s free use of magic has soiled the blind trust Dean was starting to put in the king. Castiel may be treating him with kindness, but whose behavior is the norm, Castiel’s or Gilda’s? What if Castiel is also using magic, just to a lesser degree than Gilda, and Dean hasn’t noticed yet? Or what if it’s all some complicated, twisted ploy, wherein Castiel is intentionally setting himself to be the nice Fae so that Dean will be more willing to give him whatever it is he wants?

And—okay, he’s probably overthinking, but overthinking feels like a much better option than trusting blindly and getting burned as a result.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. They need to get to the point of this and be done with it. “Right, well. Sam and I were at home. Someone climbed the side of the house and went in through his bedroom window, and when I came in to try to stop her, she threw a dagger at Sam. She ran pretty quick after that. Jumped out the window and disappeared. I had to stay with Sam, so I couldn’t chase her down.”

The two Fae are quiet while they consider this new information. Castiel glances toward his Head Healer. “Gilda, will you please bring us the dagger?”

Gilda gets up from her stool and sweeps across the room, her robe swirling behind her. She opens a cabinet that’s against the wall near Sam’s bed and withdraws a small box, which she then carries back to the table. She sets it between Dean and Castiel and lifts the lid.

The weapon still has Sam’s blood on it. Dean’s blood runs cold at the sight.

Castiel inclines his head toward it and asks, “This was the dagger you say was thrown, correct?”

“Uh.” Dean swallows thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Did your brother sustain any other injuries during this encounter?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And was there any magic involved? Were any words spoken?”

“No. No magic.”

Castiel taps his pointer finger against the side of the dagger’s box. “Why would a human have this sort of weapon?”

The question genuinely surprises Dean. He looks up at the king and scoffs. “Dude, what’s up with you assuming every problem is because of a human? It was a Fae.”

An odd look crosses Castiel’s face, and his brow furrows. “A Fae,” he repeats slowly. “In the human realm? We very rarely go there, in this day and age. What reason could a Fae have to be there, _and_ personally target your brother and attempt to kill him?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be having half the problems I currently am.” Dean twists his hands together on the table, too nervous to stay still. Necessary though it may be, he can’t say he likes thinking back to and reliving the incident in Sam’s bedroom. He tries to pull out what details he can anyway, before he has to be prompted. “It was, uh—a woman. She had a cloak with a hood and her face was covered, but I could see her ears. And this knife is obviously Fae, even I can tell that much. So before you ask, I know this isn’t something I’m wrong about.”

Castiel lets out a rough breath and rubs his palm down the side of his jaw. “I wasn’t going to accuse you of being wrong,” he says. “But I’m concerned as to what this might mean. There are a small number of Fae who do spend more time in the human realm than here, but those Fae primarily keep to forested or uninhabited areas. It’s in our nature. So unless your brother managed to find one of those Fae and anger them somehow…”

Dean shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t anything like that, Sam didn’t just… wander into some fairy circle and piss off some random Fae. This wasn’t like that. It was a targeted attack.”

“And why would a boy of your brother’s age be targeted by a Fae he has never met?”

“He—” Dean immediately stops himself. Surely this isn’t a bad detail to share, right? Even if it’s what put Sam on that other Fae’s radar, it doesn’t say anything about who Dean and Sam are. Here, in this castle, in the _Fae Realm_ —what can it matter? Dean clears his throat. “He, was, uh. Doing some research into some Fae stuff, actually. Our mom’s journal used to have instructions on getting _here_ from the human realm, but our dad ripped it out, so Sam was trying to figure it out on his own. He had just come home from the library when he was attacked.”

Gilda says, “He clearly found something he shouldn’t have, if his findings allowed you to open a doorway.”

Castiel purses his lips in what may be agreement. “Perhaps he unintentionally alerted a Fae to the research he was doing, and they thought he was a human getting into affairs he should not have. In fact, he may have even still encroached on someone’s chosen domain—”

Dean slams his hands against the table, teeth bared in a snarl. There are sparks of light jumping between his fingers again, his magic once again coming loose, but fuck, he can’t care as much as he did last time. “None of that should justify him being _stabbed_! It doesn’t matter what he might have done or who he might have pissed off, he was a _kid_ in a _library_. And then that Fae followed him home, broke into our house, and tried to kill him. She probably thought she _did_ kill him. That’s not something that happens because you read a book. Not where I’m from. But if that’s how you guys operate _here_ , then I’ll just take Sam and go, because that’s bullshit.”

The Fae are staring at him, each of them looking shell-shocked to slightly different degree. Gilda doesn’t seem to be able to believe that someone would speak to the king in such a way, judging by how wide and round her eyes have gone. And Castiel…

Dean isn’t quite sure how to decipher the look in his eyes. Not that that’s turning out to be any sort of surprise.

He doesn’t seem to be mad, at least.

Instead of continuing to meet Castiel’s stare, Dean looks down at his own hands, clenching his jaw while he watches the physical manifestation of his magic at his fingers. He can feel it, if he focuses; the pit of anger he feels in his chest on his brother’s behalf is distinctly connected to the tingling in his hands, the two energies moving in stereo. He flexes his fingers against the wood beneath them and gradually encourages the tingling to fade until the light is gone again.

Once his hands have returned to normal, Castiel lets out a quiet sigh. “He should not have been attacked for any reason,” he agrees. “I am merely trying to understand what may have happened, Dean, not justify it. Whoever made this attempt on your brother’s life is a criminal and, should they be found, will be treated as such. Murder is not something we take lightly.”

Dean swallows. “This isn’t murder. Sam isn’t dead. He isn’t _going to_ _die_.”

Gilda reaches across the table to lay one of her hands over Dean’s, but Dean jerks away from her and puts his hands in his lap instead. The rejection doesn’t bring any sort of change to her expression; it’s alarming how good she is at looking _aloof_. Dean thinks he might actually hate her.

“Your brother’s condition is very delicate,” she says, voice soft despite how little she seems to actually care. “It is entirely possible that he won’t pull through. We are intentionally keeping him asleep in the hopes that it will give his body time to recover without further harming itself—”

“A coma,” Dean interrupts. The thought makes him ache. “You have him in a damn _coma_.”

He doesn’t think that Gilda knows the word, but she nods anyway. “He needs the chance to recover without strain. He will wake when he is ready for it, but it is entirely possible that…”

She trails off, like not saying the words aloud will make it any better. It doesn’t. Dean just stares at her, and after a heavy pause, she goes on.

“If he were fully Fae, he would be dead already. The weapon was iron, and imbued with a Fae-specific poison. His only hope now is the human half of him. Without taking that into account, we had no idea how he was surviving at all. His human blood may be what allows him to survive this, if he can find the strength.”

Dean looks back across the room at his brother. He’s barely more than a lump of sheets, with rumpled hair and pointed ears sticking out of the top. If it’s up to Sam’s human side—can he survive this? Humans are resilient, sure, but standard human resilience can’t apply here. Not when it’s only half of what makes Sam up, not when the other half of him should be dead, by all rights.

But if Sam doesn’t pull through, Dean isn’t going to be able to cope.

What would he even do? Go home, back to their now-empty house? Their non-existent family, friends? Without Sam, he has nothing. No one. He’d have no reason to live, without Sam. He couldn’t even set out for revenge, because there’s no way in hell he’s ever going to find the single Fae responsible for this. The mask she was wearing made sure of that.

Castiel and Gilda are watching him, waiting for some kind of reaction, but Dean has nothing to offer them. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend, or keep up any sort of social courtesy—not that he does that last one well anyway, granted.

The funeral vibe in the room is growing too heavy for his liking, because god knows he’s been to too many of those in his life. His legs barely cooperate when he stands up from his stool, and it feels like an honest to god miracle when he manages to make it to the infirmary’s door without collapsing. Every step he takes builds his momentum, though, so when he reaches the door, he shoves through and doesn’t stop. Neither of the Fae he’s leaving behind make any move to stop him.

It takes a while, but eventually, Dean finds his way back to his room. The decor is dumb and gaudy and he hates it on sight, but that doesn’t stop him from making a beeline for the bed and collapsing into it, his face firmly buried in a pillow. Every part of him is shaking, and he’s determined to stay just like this, blocked out from the world, until it stops.

He’ll allow himself to break down after Sam is dead. But not until then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Despite the abundance of angst, here, casual reminder that there will be no character death in this fic. ^_^)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king invites Dean to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya, friends! Happy New Year! 
> 
> I know I'm always bringing some sort of advertisement or another with me when I update fics these days, but! I've done something Extremely Productive with my time since the turn of the new year! If you're on tumblr, check out the new [DeanCasFanficNet](https://deancasfanficnet.tumblr.com/), a network page for both readers and writers of DeanCas fanfic. It's still in it's fledgling stage, so it's not super populated as of yet, but I've put a lot of work into it, so check it out, maybe? There's tons of info about it on the blog page, and also an introductory (and shareable ;) ) tumblr post [here](https://deancasfanficnet.tumblr.com/post/181875735272/guys-gals-non-binary-pals-welcome-to-the) that can tell you more. Go read up on it and give us a follow! 
> 
>  
> 
> Now, as for this fic - friends, I am so excited for the point I'm finally reaching, here. There's a lot I love about this chapter, and there's also some great stuff coming up in the next few (some of which is already written, because I'm That excited)! So to everyone following along with this fic - thank you. I love you.
> 
> Enjoy. <3

Unlike last time he was in his new bed, Dean doesn’t sleep. He’s tired enough that he feels like he could, both as a lingering side effect of his magic use and as a result of his drained emotional state, but he _can’t_. His mind refuses to relax enough to let him.

Because, what if something happens to Sam? What if his condition suddenly worsens, or if his human half stops being enough to keep the rest of him alive? What if his magically-induced coma fails and then he isn’t able to heal?

What if he’s attacked again, because the job wasn’t finished the first time?

What if someone tries to come at _Dean_?

At this point, there are plenty of people who could do it. The Head Healer, if she feels like taking care of her own dirty work and going after Dean for getting her in trouble with the king. Another healer, if she sends someone after him instead. (Not that it was _his_ fault that she used her magic on him, granted, but just because _he_ has that logic doesn’t mean that she does; he knows better than to underestimate how petty a complete stranger can end up being.)

The king’s guard could have some issues with him, too. He’s sure that there’s at least one Fae posted outside of his room again by now, and he hopes to god it isn’t the woman who had initially been with Gadreel. Dean has forgotten her name, but he knows that at least of those two guards, she’s the more likely one to put her iron staff to use against him.

And beyond that, there are probably plenty Fae more who would be just as willing to get rid of him. Fae he hasn’t met, Fae who are around but whom Dean simply hasn’t _seen_. The castle is bound to be populated by more than the king and a handful of his servants. Dean will have to keep a better eye out when he ventures through the halls, next, to figure out what other threats he may have to dodge.

 _If_ he ventures into the halls again, that is. Right at this moment, while Dean is flopped back on his bed and staring blankly up at the ceiling, it certainly feels like a pretty big if.

Because… does he actually have anything to gain by exploring more?

He still needs to keep an eye on Sam, obviously. Maybe not twenty-four seven, since Dean would rather not be around the healers on a permanent basis, but his determination to keep his brother safe hasn’t changed in the slightest. The Fae are dangerous, their magic even more so, and so long as they’re in this damn world that isn’t _their_ world, Dean isn’t going to forget about that. He isn’t going to give up on Sam, or leave him on his own.

But other than Sam… what does the castle have to offer Dean? What can he do? Is he supposed to hang around and bother the king? The guy has been nice enough to Dean, and he’s not exactly hard to be around (because, okay, he’s maybe sorta pretty good-looking; he’s royalty, though, so of course he has good genes, and Dean’s recognition of those genes doesn’t mean anything), but that’s not all there is to consider.

Because in all actuality, the leader of the Fae realm likely doesn’t _want_ Dean sticking around. Castiel doesn’t need some dumb, half-human freak lurking around his castle, getting into shit he shouldn’t and distracting his servants. So with that in mind, how long can Dean hope to push his luck with the king’s hospitality? How long until he’s kicked out to fend for himself? Or, how long until he’s put to work to earn his keep?

(Though, Dean sort of doubts that Castiel would ask _that_ of him; the automatic fear probably reflects more on the ingrained sense of responsibility his father trained him to have than anything else. Except, surely a _king_ won’t have the same ‘pay your way’ mentality as John Winchester did. Right?)

But regardless of Castiel’s specific code of ethics, Dean is still a guest, and he and Sam are both currently living on the king’s good graces. And regardless of what may or may not be applicable from his dad’s teachings, Dean knows in his own right that no guest can stay forever. All kindness runs out eventually.

Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately, Dean really can’t be sure—there’s a knock on the door before he can think his way into too much more misery. The sound startles him at first, due to how unexpected it is, but he recovers quickly enough. He scrambles off of the bed and trips his way across the smooth, stone floor to the door.

He pulls it open a crack and finds Gadreel standing just outside. Dean stares at him. “Can I help you?”

The corner of the Fae’s mouth twitches in a way that’s almost a smile. “The king has invited you to dinner. I am here to escort you to the dining hall.”

For a fraction of a second, Dean is more surprised by the implication that Gadreel wasn’t _already_ posted outside of his door than anything else (because even though Dean is only partially leaning out into the hall right now, he can clearly see that there’s no one else around, so was he really not being watched at all?), but the rest of it hits him soon after. He blinks rapidly as he struggles to process.

“The king… invited me to dinner,” he repeats. He feels like he needs to, just to make sure he isn’t somehow hallucinating this entire conversation. Because—what? Dean’s been thinking himself in circles over the possibility of being kicked out for being a nuisance, and now he’s being invited to _dinner_?

Gadreel’s almost-smile becomes just a little bit more concrete, getting nearer to the real thing. “Yes. He also requested that you receive these.”

The Fae raises one of his hands, offering up a pair of plain, grey suede (or suede-adjacent, how is Dean supposed to know what’s what in this place) boots. They look halfway between pirate boots and boots that would be found in the women’s department at Nordstrom. Dean, not failing to recognize what they’re intended for, wrinkles his nose. He knows he needs shoes, but…

“Seriously?” He doesn’t bother to hide his disbelief at the boots’ style, but he cautiously reaches out to take them, anyway. The material is even softer against Dean’s fingers than he was expecting, as he realizes the moment he’s hooked them into the boots’ brims, but that doesn’t make him any less wary of them. He raises an eyebrow at Gadreel. “Is this really what you guys wear? What’s wrong with the classic _tennis shoe_ look, huh? Good ol’ sneakers? These aren’t what _you’re_ wearing, are they?”

He glances down just to double check, but sure enough, the leather boots that are laced halfway up Gadreel’s shins are _not_ the same designer pirate boots Dean is now holding. In fact, Gadreel’s boots look pretty typical of what Dean would expect to find on a palace guard, if he’s following vague stereotypes and aesthetic examples set by TV and movies.

His gaze slides back to his own boots.

Gadreel chuckles—surprising in itself—and explains, “You have no need for a warrior’s boots. These are more comfortable. Suited for nobility.”

Nobility, huh? Dean isn’t sure if he has any right to be dressing to any nobility-adjacent standards, but if this is what Castiel has sent him… There are probably worse options, he figures. And as far as dressing like nobility goes, Dean is literally already wearing a shirt that matches the king’s.

What’s a pair of boots after _that_?

Even though he’s still doubtful of the boots’ appearance, Dean takes a few steps back from the doorway, drops to sit on the floor, and pulls them on.

And, as much as he hates to admit it even to himself, they’re ridiculously comfortable. They’re just as soft on the inside as they are on the outside, even at the sole, and they fit around Dean’s feet like they were deliberately tailored to him.

He’s mildly disappointed by the fact that he now doesn’t have any reason to complain about them.

He pushes back up to his feet just in time for Gadreel to huff. “Don’t look so surprised, human. Our crafters are highly skilled, and have not resorted to the same means of mass productions that your kind are so famed for. We have nothing but the best, here.”

The guy has a point about skill and mass production, Dean knows, but that doesn’t stop him from scowling at Gadreel anyway. “Shut up, I’m still _used_ to human stuff. And don’t _call me_ ‘human’, alright? I’ve got a name, dude.”

“You do,” Gadreel agrees mildly, “but not one I have been given permission to use.”

Dean, momentarily thrown, doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t understand what permission has to do with anything.

Before he can ask, though, Gadreel flicks his chin in a clear gesture for Dean to follow him down the hallway, and Dean does just that. The Fae sets the pace, and Dean falls into step beside him. It’s not like he has any reason to refuse, after all; it’s just dinner, and once Dean thinks about it, he realizes that he’s hungry, anyway. The last thing he had to eat was the sandwich he’d made at home, back before that Fae broke in and Dean’s entire life unraveled.

His stomach rumbles just thinking about that sandwich.

Alright, maybe _hungry_ isn’t quite a strong enough word. He’s damn near starving, and dinner suddenly sounds great.

Plus—Castiel sent him some shoes. (And gave him the rest of his clothes. And a place to stay. And he’s having his healers tend to Sam.) The least Dean can do as thanks is sit with him for a meal, right?

In a castle like this one, in a king’s dining hall, it’s not like Dean will be the only person there, anyway. He fully expects their destination to look like Hogwarts’ Great Hall, and although that doesn’t bode well for Dean’s growing distrust of the Fae as a whole, he’s sure he can deal with it. He can cope with a room full of Fae for forty minutes or so if it means filling his stomach, staying on what he hopes is the king’s good side, and then getting the next several hours fully to himself after he’s slunk back into his room with no more obligations to be anywhere else.

So he’ll put up with a room full of Fae, just for a little bit. It’ll be the first big thing he sticks out for Sam’s sake.

As long as they’re not all like Gilda, he’ll be fine. If they don’t use their magic on him, he’ll be _fine_.

And, he also assumes, he’ll be okay as long as he doesn’t tell them his name. Gilda had asked for it, and Gadreel said he didn’t have permission to use it. And what had Castiel said, when he initially asked Dean his name? He said something about it being a _gift_ , didn’t he? What was that about?

He’s still frowning over the mystery of it when Gadreel slows to a stop. It brings Dean’s attention back to their surroundings. There’s yet another door in front of them, because apparently every walk through this castle ends in front of a dramatic door, yet unlike so many of the others Dean has been lead to, this one is already propped open.

What he can see of the room beyond is definitely _not_ a Great Hall. Far from, in fact.

Because this room is a hell of a lot smaller.

And most definitely isn’t full of Fae.

The single table that’s situated in the center of the room is small, practically scaled to what Dean would expect to be in a human household’s dining room—though of course, it’s still _grand_ in an inherent sort of way, elegantly built and fitting for its surroundings. But it’s still relatively small, and because of that, it’s relatively intimate, a fact that’s only made worse by the firelight that fills the room. There’s a roaring fireplace, candles on the table, sconces on the wall—

Dean blanches.

Gadreel, oblivious to what Dean is thinking, begins, “His majesty should be here—”

Dean suspects the next word is supposed to be _soon_ , but before it’s said aloud, Gadreel is interrupted with, “Oh, Dean. Hello.”

Dean spins on his heel, and his heart jumps into his throat when he sees that Castiel is not only standing behind them in the corridor, but he’s also fucking _close_. Too close, for having not made any sort of audible sound to get there. Where the hell did he even come from?

Gadreel makes his fist-to-chest gesture and bows. “My king. I apologize, I didn’t know you were so near.”

Castiel waves him off. “It’s no matter. Thank you for fetching Dean for me, Gadreel. You are dismissed for the time being.”

Gadreel inclines his head, then turns and leaves without a second of hesitation. And then it’s just Dean and the king.

Wonderful.

Dean shifts in place and scuffs one of his boots against the floor. The movement seems to pull Castiel from some sort of thought process, because he blinks and then drops his gaze to Dean’s feet.

“I take it the boots are acceptable?”

“Well—” Dean clears his throat and shrugs. He spares a quick look at Castiel’s shoes; they’re fairly similar to Dean’s, if a slightly darker grey and somewhat less slouchy in style. So at least they don’t match in _that_ respect. “Better than going barefoot. So. Thanks. Are we, uh.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, trying hard not to be as awkward as he feels. “I heard there’d be food?”

Castiel looks pleased by the approval of the boots, and then his expression brightens further. “Yes, dinner. Join me, will you?”

Dean’s nervousness swells as he follows the king into the small dining room, where they each sit in one of the two chairs situated by the table. It’s just Dean’s luck that they’re directly across from each other, and across the shorter length of the rectangular table rather than the longer one. It puts him close to the king, with nowhere to hide and no way to escape the Fae’s sharp eyes.

Meaning, it’s immediately absolutely awful, and Dean thinks he probably should have opted to starve rather than put himself through this. Already, he’s doing everything he can to avoid looking directly at Castiel, and he’s sure it’s not subtle.

But if Castiel notices, he doesn’t comment. What he _does_ do is settle a bit more comfortably into his chair, partially slouching, and then he says without preamble, “I spoke more with Gilda about your brother after you left today. Based on how stable his condition is holding, she is optimistic about his recovery. It may be slow going, but—”

The revisit to the subject of _Gilda_ makes Dean twitch, more so than this dinner setup is already making him, so despite the overall good of what Castiel is saying, Dean snaps, a bit more harshly than he probably should, “How slow going?”

The king pauses. Then he says slowly, “We can’t know that.”

Dean scoffs. He starts bouncing one of his knees, needing an outlet for the kinetic energy growing inside of him. The room is too small, Castiel is too close, and the memory of the way Gilda’s magic had pulled at him is only making the entire situation more claustrophobic. His paranoia that the king could do the same thing to him is slowly seeping back into place.

“Well, _slow going_ just sounds a little too vague for my liking, alright? I want my brother to be awake and alive, and I really don’t think that’s too much to ask. And we have lives to get back to, anyway. We have a _home_. We don’t belong here.”

It’s harsher than he means to be. Harsher than he _should be_ , considering all the upsides there still are (Sam’s getting help, isn’t he?), and especially considering who it is he’s talking to (because surely no full-blooded Fae would sit in the king’s castle and yell at him), but his logic is a bit frayed at the moment, just like the rest of him.

Castiel’s features are sharp by nature, cold and defined like they’re chiseled from marble, and while that makes him fundamentally gorgeous, it also means that his frown is a damn formidable thing. Dean averts his eyes on instinct, glaring off over the king’s shoulder and pretending he doesn’t see the look he is now on the receiving end of.

It hits a little too close to the mark of _I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed_ for Dean’s liking.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, and, yep, that’s definitely the unmistakable tone of disappointment. There’s earnestness in his voice too, though, and he leans forward to convey how intent he is. “I know you want better news, but I am putting every relevant resource I have toward helping your brother. I am not your antagonist, so please, do not feel obligated to treat me as one.”

So says the king of a realm Dean has every reason to resent. He scoffs under his breath. Maybe there’s some truth to it, _maybe_ , but fuck, Dean wants to be bitter right now, so he’s going to be.

Castiel continues to frown at him, but before he can lecture Dean any more, a door over in the corner of the room opens, and a pair of servants sweep in. One brings two heaping plates of food, while the other carries a silver pitcher and a pair of matching, golden goblets. It’s the perfect interruption; Dean’s stomach rumbles at the smell of the food, already permeating the room, and sits up straighter in his chair in anticipation.

The servant with the food sets a plate in front of each of them, while the other pours out their drinks, a rich, blue liquid passing from the pitcher to the goblets. The meal itself doesn’t look like any Dean has ever eaten, since most of the ingredients aren’t ones he recognizes and the few that he _can_ safely put names to shouldn’t ever belong in food—because really, who would put so many _flower petals_ into a dish? But overall, it looks enough like food to satisfy Dean, and that means he’s willing to put down as much of it as he can. There’s already silverware on the table, an awkwardly-thin, two-tined fork and a matching knife that’s just as oddly shapeless, so Dean snatches up his fork and digs in.

And, despite the overwhelmingly _Fae_ look of the meal, it’s pretty damn delicious. He was planning on shoveling it into his mouth as fast as possible no matter what, because he’s too hungry to be picky, but the fact that it’s actually _good_ makes that a hell of a lot easier to do.

The servant with the pitcher finishes pouring their drinks, then very obviously exchanges a judgemental look with his counterpart. They both turn their eyes on Dean, then, staring at him without shame.

In response, Dean pauses his eating to smirk around a mouthful of food and say, “Take a picture, jack-offs, it’ll last longer.”

Both of the Fae look completely scandalized. The one who had carried the plates in starts to say something in her native tongue, clearly scathing even though Dean doesn’t bother to focus enough to know what the hell she’s saying, but then Castiel turns his head halfway toward her and growls out, “ɪˈnʌf. You may leave.”

The woman glares briefly at the back of Castiel’s head, then she and her companion both bow and retreat back to the door they had entered through. Dean watches them until they’re gone, then scoffs to himself and resumes his eating.

Across the table, Castiel picks up his own fork, and takes a slow bite of his meal. _He_ , at least, doesn’t seem to care that Dean is throwing table manners to the wind in favor of scarfing down his food as quickly as he physically can.

But really, in Dean’s defense—he’s hungry as fuck.

They eat in silence after that point. Dean clears his plate long before Castiel does, and although he feels a quick, sharp stab of embarrassment at the fact that he ate like a damn pig in front of a _king_ , he can’t actually care all that much. Not when he can already feel the effect of the food as it settles into his stomach, evening out his blood sugar and steadying a tremble in his hands he previously didn’t even realize was there. Now that he’s eaten, he feels _good_ , and much more alive than he had before.

And because of that, he feels like he can relax a little bit more. Even the king’s intimidating aura can’t disrupt the new level of calm seeping into his bones, so while Castiel is still mostly focused on his own dinner, Dean takes the opportunity to watch him. He takes a sip of his drink so that he’s not _just_ staring—it tastes like some kind of blueberry wine, which is surprisingly not terrible, even considering Dean’s usual distaste for wine—then rolls the cup between his palms to keep his hands occupied.

Given how quiet the room is, it’s more than a little surprising how comfortable the atmosphere is. Or, okay, maybe not _comfortable_ comfortable, but it’s definitely not as awkward as it easily could be, since Dean is sitting opposite a king.

And, really, that’s a pretty key detail to keep in mind. This is the king of an entire people that he’s having dinner with, the king that his mom should have followed; he’s not just _some guy_ , so of course being stuck here with him isn’t all smooth sailing. Castiel is intense, sure, but that’s pretty much guaranteed to be in his job description.

Maybe Dean isn’t quite ready to trust him, even if he did reprimand another Fae for harassing Dean _again_ (because he most definitely didn’t miss that), but, well. This definitely wasn’t a _bad_ experience to add to Dean’s list of encounters with Castiel.

Maybe the king isn’t bad overall.

But the jury’s going to have to stay out on that one for a little bit longer.

Dean downs the rest of his wine just as Castiel finishes off his meal and, eager to avoid a post-meal conversation, or whatever else may be supposed to happen next, pushes his chair back from the table and stands. Castiel blinks at him, seemingly surprised by the move.

And Dean, now looming over him, suddenly feels like a jackass. He clears his throat, then hurries to excuse himself. “I, uh… think I oughta be getting back to my room. I pretty much haven’t stopped being tired since I got me and Sam here, and now that I’ve got all this food in me, that’s probably just gonna make things worse. And if I’m gonna pass out, I should do it in a bed.”

He winces at his own words. God, he sounds like such an idiot. And he wants to leave, sure, but he doesn’t have to be so damn obvious about it. Being outright rude about it isn’t going to make his _I could get kicked out at any moment_ issue any better.

But, thankfully, Castiel nods in understanding. “Yes, I’m sure you could use more rest. I won’t keep you from it. I, ah—” His chair scrapes against the floor when he stands, and he flinches against the sound of it. It’s so un-kingly that Dean can’t help but crack a smile. Castiel goes on, “I have more topics I would like to discuss with you, but there is nothing that cannot wait another day or two. I suspect we will be spending quite a bit of time together, you and I. So long as your brother is recovering.”

“Right, yeah.” Dean doesn’t want to think about Sam’s recovery or all the time he’s going to be spending with Castiel, though, so he doesn’t let either subject stick. Castiel isn’t objecting to Dean’s escape, and Dean needs to capitalize on that.

Except, now that they’re both standing… What the hell is Dean supposed to do? Does he just. Walk out? Should he… shake Castiel’s hand? Wish him a goodnight? He isn’t expected to bow like the servants and guards do, is he? Or put his fist to his chest? The servants who brought their dinner out didn’t do that one, but just about everyone else has, right? Where does Dean fall on that social hierarchy? Would he even be _allowed_ to shake Castiel’s hand, or is touching the king a guaranteed faux pas?

Jesus Christ, Dean’s overthinking himself into a spiral. And, knowing full well he needs to break that spiral, he forces himself to make a choice and _act_.

He starts toward the door, half-convinced that he’s going to walk out of the room without another word, but Castiel mirrors him, which means that they reach the end of the table at the same time. Castiel looks like he’s going to say something, and Dean, not wanting to deal with whatever may come of that, panics.

In this case, panicking means clapping his hand to the Fae king’s shoulder like they’re old buds and saying, “Well, thanks for dinner. Goodnight.” And then he turns and hauls ass out of the room, pushing through the heavy wooden doors and out into the hallway without a backwards glance. He thinks he hears Castiel say a, “Goodnight?” as he goes, but he can’t be bothered to slow down long enough to be sure.

It’s only after he’s taken several blind turns through the castle’s corridors that Dean realizes he doesn’t know where the fuck he is or how to get back to his room. He could probably trace his steps back to the dining room to ask Castiel for help, but Dean has already embarrassed himself enough for one night, so _that_ isn’t going to happen.

He heaves a sigh and resigns himself to his wandering. He’ll get back to his room eventually.

He spends the entire walk thinking about Castiel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean dines with the king again, with some more productive results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, friends! 
> 
> First of all - I am so, so sorry for the long delay in updates, here. As I'd mentioned before my absence, I got pretty caught up finishing my pinefest fic (a superhero AU called [Where the Lightning Splits the Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932592/chapters/42345740) which I love with my whole heart), and then after that went up... I kind of hit a good ol' slump, not gonna lie. Writing is hard.
> 
> But! Look! An update! Please enjoy, and thank you so much for being patient with me. 
> 
> <3

It’s hard for Dean to know exactly how late he sleeps in, given that he has no clue how the Fae tell time, but he does know that when he wakes up, he feels  _ good _ . For the first time since entering the Fae realm, there isn’t a bone-deep sense of tiredness pulling him down. He feels like himself, and that fact alone feels like cause for celebration. 

And since he has nothing else to do and nowhere else to go (except to the king, he would guess, but especially after the way dinner ended last night, he isn’t exactly eager to see Castiel again so soon), Dean decides that celebrating is just the thing to do. He runs himself a bath and basks in the warm, eucalyptus-and-lavender scented water until his fingers have turned pruny, and any lingering tension has been soaked out of his muscles. 

It’s good, and calm, and utterly relaxing. 

Even better, then, is that after he has drained his bath, dried, and dressed, he opens the door to the hall with the hope of finding someone to ask about breakfast (or is it lunch?) only to find a cart of food already waiting for him. He does a quick head check to make sure there are no Fae in sight, then rolls the cart into his room and pushes the door back closed. The meal is just as weird and Fae as dinner had been, but it’s also just as delicious, so Dean sits himself on the foot of his bed and scarfs it down without hesitation. 

But after that… not much happens. After he has eaten, Dean returns the cart to the hall—there’s still no one in sight, guard or otherwise—and then busies himself for the next while with exploring his assigned bedroom. The space is familiar, now that he’s spent the better part of an entire day within its walls, but that doesn’t mean he knows everything that it has to offer. He finds that there are a few more sets of clothes stored in the chest beside his bed, each of the items nearly identical to the ones he is already wearing, save for a few differences in color. 

“Guess the Fae don’t do fashion,” Dean grumbles to himself. Even though he knows from wearing them that the clothes are sturdy and comfortable, it’s still a far cry from the drawer full of band and graphic tees he has back home. How the hell do the Fae show their personality? Is this why they’re all such assholes, because all they have to wear is medieval business casual? 

Not that it looks like business casual on the king. But—well. The king gets an exception. Dean suspects that he would make even  _ human _ business casual look good. 

But that’s not relevant to anything at all, so Dean shoves the thought from his mind just as quickly as it arrived. 

After looking over his clothing options, Dean carries on with his tour of his room. The only other point of interest, however, is a small shelf of books situated near the fireplace. Each spine is leatherbound and imprinted with gold and silver, and though the titles look interesting—ranging from  _ A History of the Three Kingdoms _ to  _ Favorite Tales Among Children _ —they’re written entirely in the Fae language. 

And Dean doesn’t have even a fraction of the patience or focus it would take to make sense of that right now. He knows the Fae language, sure, but not so well that he wants to willingly dive into dry old history books.

Later, he tells himself. When he’s more bored, and more desperate for information about the Fae. 

For the time being, he has other ways of torturing himself. 

The next time he peers out into the hallway, Gadreel is posted beside his door. The Fae raises an eyebrow at him, expectant, so Dean clears his throat and asks, “Mind showing me the way back to the infirmary?”

Gadreel answers him with a solemn nod and a low, “Of course,” then leads Dean through the halls as asked. When they reach the infirmary, the guard positions himself beside the door, leaving Dean to enter on his own. 

There are a few healers in the room, but thankfully, Gilda isn’t one of them. Those who are there don’t pay any attention to Dean, either; they give him a wide berth as he crosses the infirmary to Sam’s bedside, with no more acknowledgement than polite nods and a pitiful smile or two. 

Unsurprisingly, Sam looks exactly the same as he did yesterday. He still looks swallowed up by his bed, and too sickly for his own good. His chest is still rising and falling, though, and really—that’s what matters more than anything else. 

Dean sits on the floor beside the bed, one knee folded up to his chest and his shoulder pressing against the edge of the thin mattress beside Sam’s head. 

And that’s where he stays. 

He doesn’t have much of a grasp on time, in the Fae realm—the sky outside the infirmary’s windows is bright and sun-lit, but there doesn’t seem to be an actual sun, which means there is no way to track its position to guess even a general time of day—but judging by the stiffness that seeps into his bones as he continues to sit beside Sam, he knows that several hours must pass. Not that that bothers him, of course; there’s nowhere for him to be except with Sam. And as long as he’s here, he knows his brother is  _ safe _ . He knows he is still breathing. 

Someone may have tried to kill him, but they didn’t succeed, and they aren’t going to any time soon.

He spends a lot of his time caught up in his thoughts, too. Now that he’s spent a day in the Fae realm, there’s more for him to process and pick apart. There’s the Fae themselves, their magic, Dean’s own magic, the king—and overarching all of it, the biggest question weighing on Dean’s mind? 

How much was there that he didn’t know about his mother?

Eventually, sometime around when the strange, sunless-sky finally begins to dim, the door to the infirmary opens, and Gadreel steps in. He crosses the elongated room to stand near the foot of Sam’s bed before dipping into a quick bow. “The king has requested your presence for dinner, sir.” 

Dean snorts automatically. “ _ Sir _ ? Really?” He shakes his head, but pushes through the aches which have set into his joints to get to his feet, anyway. “If you need me to say it, you can call me Dean. That’s better than… anything else.” 

He doesn’t really want to be friends with Gadreel, or too close with any Fae at all for that matter, but since it seems like the guard is going to continue to be around… ‘Sir’ just feels awkward. Dean would call his dad  _ sir _ , but no one has ever used it to address him. It feels archaic, stiff. 

Fitting for the Fae, Dean supposes. But that doesn’t mean he likes it.

It may just be a trick of the light, but he thinks Gadreel smiles. “Dean,” he says, using the name now that he can, “the king has requested your presence for dinner.”

And—right. Dinner. That’s definitely what Gadreel said the first time, even if Dean didn’t choose to acknowledge it. Despite how awkward the previous dinner ended up being, Dean doesn’t have a reason (it the resilience, he  _ is _ hungry) to refuse the invitation. 

Although, he does strongly suspect he’s being pitied. He doubts anything happens in this castle that Castiel doesn’t know about, and since Dean has now spent the majority of his second day here sitting in silence at his brother’s bedside...

But, whatever. The king can think what he wants, Dean doesn’t give a shit. He just wants to be fed. 

Gadreel escorts him to the dining hall where, tonight, Castiel is already in his seat at the table. The sight of him sends a twist of nerves through Dean’s gut, and he abruptly remembers just how awkward he had been when they parted last. Clapping his hand to the king’s shoulder, what the hell had Dean been thinking? As he takes his seat across from Castiel, all Dean can do is flash him a tight smile and hope to god the subject doesn’t come up. Or, more importantly, hope he doesn’t get in some kind of trouble for it. 

Once Dean is sitting, however, Castiel merely blinks at him, as though he’s surprised to be seeing him. Dean raises an eyebrow at him and waits; aside from the crackling from the fireplace, the room is silent, now that Gadreel has left and it’s just the two of them again, and Dean isn’t going to be the one to break that silence.

It doesn’t take the king too long to get his thoughts in order, though. Only a few seconds pass before he wets his lips and says, “Good evening, Dean. I wasn’t sure if you would join me again tonight.”

Dean frowns automatically. “Gadreel said you invited me.” 

“I did,” Castiel agrees, dipping his chin, “but that does not mean you needed to accept. Although, I am grateful that you did. Given your mistrust of the Fae, I think it is good for us to continue to build a rapport.” 

Is that how the king is going to be viewing this, then? As a trust building exercise of some kind? Great. Dean barely represses the urge to roll his eyes, because of all the things he needs right now, some sort of fucked up friendship with the king is  _ not _ one of them. 

But, Dean knows better than to argue this particular point. If Castiel wants to be friendly with him, so be it. That’s the Fae’s own choice, and one that should work out in Dean’s favor, at that. 

It doesn’t mean Dean has to be friends with the king in return. 

When Dean doesn’t reply to Castiel’s statement, the Fae clears his throat. “How is your brother faring?” 

“He’s peachy.” Dean drums his fingertips against the table, willing his irritation to hold off for the time being. Castiel isn’t trying to be a dick by talking about Sam—he’s just pretending he cares. Dean changes the subject. “So, you always eat dinner in this tiny little room? Alone? You don’t have, like… a court and citizens and whatever who should get this time with you?”

Castiel’s head cocks to the side while he considers that, a creasing forming between his brows. “I dine with guests, when I may have them. As it would happen right now, that only applies to you.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then adds, “And your brother. Though of course, given those particular circumstances…”

Dean ignores the subject of his brother once again, and presses on his actual point. “What, so no one else wants to see you right now? No one’s trying to schmooze you, earn favors? You must be super influential, right, so how are there  _ not _ people leeching onto you? Fae can’t be that different from humans.” 

Castiel presses his lips together, though it looks as though he’s suppressing a smile. “You’re very astute, Dean. You are clearly not one to be fooled by the false promises of power and influence. That’s very good.” 

It’s an odd and unexpected compliment, and Dean is temporarily taken aback, an uncomfortable warmth twisting through his gut. Maybe he understands how awful the world can be, sure—but so what? That doesn’t mean he’s wise or anything, it just makes him a cynic. 

Cynicism can’t be a trait that’s unique to humans. Right?

Oblivious to Dean’s rush of confusion, Castiel goes on to explain, “The castle is always quiet at this time of year, actually. There will be a gathering for the solstice in a few weeks’ time, and until that date arrives, many of my people are busy preparing. There are rituals, celebrations, gifts... The Summer Solstice is the most important day of the year. Any guests I may have for this year’s festivities likely won’t arrive until the day before, at the soonest.” 

“...Oh.” Celebrating solstices seems like a hippy thing to do, in Dean’s experience, but then, that’s probably exactly why he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s the Fae’s holiday of choice. If this solstice is the reason why he isn’t being exposed to even more Fae, though, well. So be it.

He clears his throat and flashes the king a tight smile. “Guess I have a deadline for when me and Sammy should be clearing out of here, huh? Once we can get him on his feet, we’ll be out of your hair, and you can put an actual guest in the space I’m taking up.” 

“There is no need for you to—”

The servants’ door in the corner of the room swings open, prompting the king to bite his tongue. And, frankly, Dean doesn’t really care why, or what he was about to say; he’d much rather eat than talk. 

There are three servants who bring their meal out tonight, two of them carrying three plates between them, while the third carries a pitcher. The Fae with the wine is the only one among the group that Dean recognizes, having had the same task the previous night. Dean eyes him warily, but unlike last night, none of the servants stare at him. The plates are set down—one each in front of Dean and Castiel, then the third, holding bread, goes directly between them—the drinks are poured, then the servants bow to their king, and leave the way they came. 

Dean finds himself oddly annoyed by how bland the entire encounter is.

Not that he  _ wanted _ to be at odds with Castiel’s servants, of course. It’s best if he doesn’t make waves, or give anyone else any additional excuse to loathe him. He doesn’t need more targets on his back. That isn’t how he’s going to help Sam.

But at the same time, he knows that if the Fae aren’t going to even so much as look at him, there’s a reason for it. And that reason isn’t one that Dean has done anything to earn in his own right. 

He doesn’t need to fight with the Fae he is now surrounded by. But he also doesn’t need the king to be fighting his battles for him. 

It makes him feel like a kid, with his babysitter shaking their finger at his playground bullies. It’s embarrassing. 

Dean scowls down at his plate while he shoves his first bite of food into his mouth. Fucking Fae, fucking with his head. 

They eat in silence, Dean pissed off at nothing, and Castiel seemingly unsure of what to do with that. Although he doesn’t look directly at him, he can see that the king looks mildly uncomfortable. He shifts in his chair, and glances at Dean far too often. On several occasions, it looks like he wants to say something, his brows pulling together and his lips parting, but each time, he diverts and takes a drink of his wine, instead. 

It’s awkward, Dean knows. And, not for the first time, he’s blaming things on the king which he probably shouldn’t. It works out for the best, though, because if nothing else, the heavy silence gives him the chance to eat, and think, and reset himself. By the time his plate is nearly cleared, he’s feeling more weary than anything else. He takes a few more bites of his dinner—the meat that the dish is centered around is hearty, but a bit too gamey for Dean’s taste—then pushes his plate toward the center of the table and settles further back into his chair. 

He’s spent most of his day thinking about Castiel and the things he could say to the Fae king, but now that he’s here and has his chance, it’s even harder to want to follow through with any of it than it had been last night. He doesn’t want to talk, but he has to. He doesn’t want to put up with Castiel, but he  _ has to _ . 

He needs to be better than he has been so far. He needs to be doing his best. 

Dean flips his fork between his fingers, rolling it across his knuckles while he thinks. The upside of the weird, two-tine design of a Fae fork is that it’s much more balanced than a normal fork would be, so the fidget is smooth, almost graceful. He’s pretty sure Castiel is watching, since the king has gone still across from him, but Dean doesn’t care enough to bother checking. It’s not like it matters, anyway.

Eventually, the various subjects swirling through Dean’s mind begin to slow and solidify. One rises up above the rest; he keeps his eyes on his fork as he begins, “Do you think I could maybe—”

But of course, that’s exactly when Castiel begins, “I have been thinking—”

Dean stops the twirling of his fork, and he and Castiel stare at each other with mutual looks of surprise.

A brief moment passes, then Castiel clears his throat and dips his chin. “Go ahead.”

“Uh.” Dean wets his lips and sets his fork down on the table. Maybe he needs to focus for this.” “I was wondering if… I could have my mom’s journal back. Since you can’t read it, and it’s all personal stuff, anyway. It’s important to me.”

Castiel assesses him for the span of a few seconds, then gives him a small smile that’s more visible around his eyes than it is on his lips. “Yes, you may have it. I intended to give it to you, anyway. You may retrieve it from my study tomorrow.” 

So he has to go  _ to _ Castiel to get it. Great. That’s better than not getting it back at all, though, Dean supposes, so he nods and mumbles, “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” Castiel replies. He waits a beat, ensuring that Dean has nothing else to say on the matter, then says, “You’ll have to forgive me for asking, Dean, but I’m curious. When did your mother die?”

The question sends a familiar chill through Dean, a wave of  _ this is a dangerous topic and I don’t want to talk about it _ that he grew to know long before he ever came to the Fae Realm. Kids at school would ask him about his mom, too nosy for their own good about their weirdo classmate who kept to himself, yet very obviously didn’t have the same family structure that so many of the rest of them did. Teachers would ask, too. Relate it to discipline problems. Then came bosses, coworkers, and even friends of John’s, before the man died, wen they thought they could get the explanation that John constantly denied them from his sons instead. Everyone has always been so  _ curious _ about it. 

It’s even worse that Castiel is now asking, since he already made it clear during their first conversation that he wants to know who Mary was, but at the same time… Dean can’t see a whole lot of harm in telling him. He’s already said that Mary died when Sam was a baby; what harm can there be in elaborating slightly? It’s not like that will reveal who she was, after all. 

And besides—Castiel agreed to give him Mary’s journal back. He’s showing kindness. Dean can give him some courtesy in return. 

He swallows and answers, “I was about five or six. So, uh—about fifteen years ago.”

Castiel nods, like that confirms something he already knew. “I would assume that that is when the development of your magic ceased.”

“Well… I guess.” Dean rubs at the back of his neck, feeling awkward all over again now that he thinks he can see where the subject is headed. “I mean. My mom had been teaching me how to use my magic before she died. I know there’s stuff I still got better at, like looking human, and I could use it enough to open the door to get me and Sam here—”

Castiel interrupts, “But beyond those things, you never learned to use this extended part of yourself. As I saw yesterday, you cannot control your abilities when your emotional instinct is to use them. As I have seen since sitting down to dine with you tonight, you are not even capable of keeping your base emotions out of your aura. You stopped learning about your Fae half when your mother died, and therefore, you essentially have the control of a young child. A young  _ temperamental _ child, even.”

Dean frowns across the table at him, and chooses to ignore the prickle of embarrassment he can feel in his cheeks. He didn’t even know he  _ had _ an aura. “Wow, put it a little more bluntly, why don’t you.”

Castiel’s lips press thin. “I’m sorry, it’s an observation, not a personal criticism. It isn’t your fault, after all.”

“Sure.” Dean battles back a scowl and picks his form back up to resume his flipping, now needing the excuse to occupy his hands  _ and _ keep his eyes down and away from Castiel’s. The blue of them is too vibrant, and he feels like they can see right through him. “So, why is my  _ childlike magic _ relevant, then?”

“I was thinking,” the king says, finally picking up on the line that he had initially tried to begin with, “that you should be taught better control. Simple lessons to learn to keep your magic contained, even at the height of your emotions, as well as to learn to utilize your inherent power for your own protection and safety. For the Fae, our magic is a part of us, as natural and unthinking as the beating of our hearts. As the half-human offspring of a Fae, you have clearly demonstrated a potential for the same, yet without any knowledge of your abilities…” 

“Without knowing how to control it, I’m basically a child, yeah, I got that part.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not just that. I believe that once you can properly harness your magic, it will be easier for you to adjust to our realm. Humans can be here, and many of them have been in the past, but not without modification. Not without becoming more Fae themselves.” 

Dean can’t say he likes the way that sounds; his stomach twists unpleasantly. “The hell does that mean?”

“Surely you have heard the human myths? The songs passed along through the generations, warnings disguised as light-hearted stories, poems, children’s nursery rhymes?”

When Dean shakes his head, Castiel recites, a spark of genuine amusement visible in his eyes, “ _ We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits _ ? Or, perhaps my favorite line from that particular poem,  _ Dear, you should not stay so late, twilight is not good for maidens; should not loiter in the glen, in the haunts of goblin men _ .” 

Dean stares at Castiel, his heart thudding just a bit faster than it had been previously. He vaguely recognises the first line the king gave him, but not the second. The low scrape of Castiel’s voice, though, combined with the electricity which seems to surround him, the orange glow from the fire all around them, and even the foreignness of the blue crescents beneath his eyes all make the simple lines absolutely entrancing. And, fuck, Dean should  _ not _ feel as enthralled by it as he is.

It feels so similar to and yet nothing like the magic Gilda had pushed over him.

He has to swallow before he can speak, his throat suddenly dry. “I, uh. I assume that you’re the goblin man.”

Castiel chuckles, a warm sound that sends an involuntary shiver down Dean’s spine. “From a certain perspective, yes. Though, the Fae’s time of stealing young human children and maidens away from their homes has long since passed, so I would argue that I am no more of a goblin than you are.” 

“R-right.” The single word threatens to stick in Dean’s throat, the dryness persisting. But Jesus Christ, what’s even happening right now? And when did this room get  _ so small _ ? He feels like he can’t breathe. He swallows again, his throat clicking. “Did you have a point with all of this?”

“I do.” Castiel leans his forearms against the edge of the table, his fingers laced together. “I would like to help you. I believe with some teaching and basic practice routines, we can strengthen your magic, and help you to feel more at-ease for the duration of your stay here.”

Dean thinks back to what the king had said before, about humans in the Fae Realm needing to become more Fae-like. Dean is clearly Fae enough to be able to live here just as easily as he has always lived among humans, but if Castiel thinks there’s still room for improvement… It probably isn’t something that Dean should resist. 

Plus, well. It would be nice to learn his magic well enough to  _ not _ be compared to a child. He’s always been smart and resourceful, and he’s a hell of a quick learner—but Fae magic is just flat-out beyond his range of knowledge. And like Castiel said, that isn’t really Dean’s fault. 

Learning to better control his magic could be good. In fact, so long as the chance is being offered, Dean can’t see any sort of downside. 

He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. 

“What do I need to do?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/)!


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